SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

By  D.H.LAWRENCE 


Jan  Jut? 


Illustrate^ 

. 

with.  8  pictures  jn  full  color 

by  JAN  JUTA 

and  With  a  map/bf  Sardinia  by  the  author. 


$5.00 


X  LIBR.IS 


O  H  N 

L   E  N 
4ARINER, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 


OROSEI 


Jan  Juta 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


WITH     EIGHT    PICTURES 
IN    COLOR    BY 


JAN  JUTA 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 
1921 


COPYRIG  HT,     Ip2I  ,     BY 
THOMAS      SELTZER,     INC 

All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.     As  FAR  AS  PALERMO 1 1 

II.     THE  SEA 44 

III.  CAGLIARI        . 99 

IV.  MANDAS 127 

V.     To  SORGONO 154 

VI.     To  NUORO 212 

VII.     To  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER     .  260 

VIII.     BACK 312 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
OROSEI Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

MAP — By  D.  H.  Lawrence 44 

ISILI 100 

TONARA       ...........        148 

SORGONO 1 8O 

FONNI 2O4 

GAVOI 236 

NUORO      . 268 

TERRANOVA 300 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 
i. 

AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO. 

COMES  over  one  an  absolute  necessity  to  move. 
And  what  is  more,  to  move  in  some  particular 
direction.     A  double  necessity  then:  to  get 
on  the  move,  and  to  know  whither. 

Why  can't  one  sit  still?  Here  in  Sicily  it  is  so  pleas- 
ant: the  sunny  Ionian  sea,  the  changing  jewel  of  Cala- 
bria, like  a  fire-opal  moved  in  the  light ;  Italy  and  the 
parorama  of  Christmas  clouds,  night  with  the  dog-star 
laying  a  long,  luminous  gleam  across  the  sea,  as  if 
baying  at  us,  Orion  marching  above  j  how  the  dog-star 
Sirius  looks  at  one,  looks  at  one!  he  is  the  hound  of 
heaven,  green,  glamorous  and  fierce! — and  then  oh 
regal  evening  star,  hung  westward  flaring  over  the 
jagged  dark  precipices  of  tall  Sicily:  then  Etna,  that 
wicked  witch,  resting  her  thick  white  snow  under 
heaven,  and  slowly,  slowly  rolling  her  orange-coloured 
smoke.  They  called  her  the  Pillar  of  Heaven,  the 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Greeks.  It  seems  wrong  at  first,  for  she  trails  up  in 
a  long,  magical,  flexible  line  from  the  sea's  edge  to 
her  blunt  cone,  and  does  not  seem  tall.  She  seems 
rather  low,  under  heaven.  But  as  one  knows  her 
better,  oh  awe  and  wizardy!  Remote  under  heaven, 
aloof,  so  near,  yet  never  with  us.  The  painters  try 
to  paint  her,  and  the  photographers  to  photograph  her, 
in  vain.  Because  why?  Because  the  near  ridges,  with 
their  olives  and  white  houses,  these  are  with  us.  Be- 
cause the  river-bed,  and  Naxos  under  the  lemon  groves, 
Greek  Naxos  deep  under  dark-leaved,  many-fruited 
lemon  groves,  Etna's  skirts  and  skirt-bottoms,  these  still 
are  our  world,  our  own  world.  Even  the  high  villages 
among  the  oaks,  on  Etna.  But  Etna  herself,  Etna  of 
the  snow  and  secret  changing  winds,  she  is  beyond  a 
crystal  wall.  When  I  look  at  her,  low,  white,  witch- 
like  under  heaven,  slowly  rolling  her  orange  smoke 
and  giving  sometimes  a  breath  of  rose-red  flame,  then 
I  must  look  away  from  earth,  into  the  ether,  into  the 
low  empyrean.  And  there,  in  that  remote  region,  Etna 
is  alone.  If  you  would  see  her,  you  must  slowly  take 
off  your  eyes  from  the  world  and  go  a  naked  seer  to  the 
strange  chamber  of  the  empyrean.  Pedestal  of  heaven! 
The  Greeks  had  a  sense  of  the  magic  truth  of  things. 
Thank  goodness  one  still  knows  enough  about  them  to 
find  one's  kinship  at  last.  There  are  so  many  photo- 

[    12    ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

graphs,  there  are  so  infinitely  many  water-colour  draw- 
ings and  oil  paintings  which  purport  to  render  Etna. 
But  pedestal  of  heaven!  You  must  cross  the  invisible 
border.  Between  the  foreground,  which  is  our  own, 
and  Etna,  pivot  of  winds  in  lower  heaven,  there  is  a 
dividing  line.  You  must  change  your  state  of  mind. 
A  metempsychosis.  It  is  no  use  thinking  you  can  see 
and  behold  Etna  and  the  foreground  both  at  once. 
Never.  One  or  the  other.  Foreground  and  a  tran- 
scribed Etna.  Or  Etna,  pedestal  of  heaven. 

Why,  then,  must  one  go?  Why  not  stay?  Ah,  what 
a  mistress,  this  Etna!  with  her  strange  winds  prowling 
round  her  like  Circe's  panthers,  some  black,  some  white. 
With  her  strange,  remote  communications  and  her  ter- 
rible dynamic  exhalations.  She  makes  men  mad.  Such 
terrible  vibrations  of  wicked  and  beautiful  electricity 
she  throws  about  her,  like  a  deadly  net!  Nay,  some- 
times, verily,  one  can  feel  a  new  current  of  her  demon 
magnetism  seize  one's  living  tissue  and  change  the 
peaceful  life  of  one's  active  cells.  She  makes  a  storm 
in  the  living  plasm  and  a  new  adjustment.  And  some- 
times it  is  like  a  madness. 

This  timeless  Grecian  Etna,  in  her  lower-heaven 
loveliness,  so  lovely,  so  lovely,  what  a  torturer!  Not 
many  men  can  really  stand  her,  without  losing  their 
souls.  She  is  like  Circe.  Unless  a  man  is  very  strong, 

[  13  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

she  takes  his  soul  away  from  him  and  leaves  him  not 
a  beast,  but  an  elemental  creature,  intelligent  and  soul- 
less. Intelligent,  almost  inspired,  and  soulless,  like  the 
Etna  Sicilians.  Intelligent  daimons,  and  humanly, 
according  to  us,  the  most  stupid  people  on  earth.  Ach, 
horror!  How  many  men,  how  many  races,  has  Etna 
put  to  flight?  It  was  she  who  broke  the  quick  of  the 
Greek  soul.  And  after  the  Greeks,  she  gave  the 
Romans,  the  Normans,  the  Arabs,  the  Spaniards,  the 
French,  the  Italians,  even  the  English,  she  gave  them 
all  their  inspired  hour  and  broke  their  souls. 

Perhaps  it  is  she  one  must  flee  from.  At  any  rate, 
one  must  go:  and  at  once.  After  having  come  back 
only  at  the  end  of  October,  already  one  must  dash 
away.  And  it  is  only  the  third  of  January.  And  one 
cannot  afford  to  move.  Yet  there  you  are:  at  the 
Etna  bidding  one  goes. 

Where  does  one  go?  There  is  Girgenti  by  the  south. 
There  is  Tunis  at  hand.  Girgenti,  and  the  sulphur 
spirit  and  the  Greek  guarding  temples,  to  make  one 
madder?  Never.  Neither  Syracuse  and  the  madness 
of  its  great  quarries.  Tunis?  Africa?  Not  yet,  Not 
yet.  Not  the  Arabs,  not  yet.  Naples,  Rome,  Florence? 
No  good  at  all.  Where  then? 

Where  then?     Spain  or  Sardinia.    Spain  or  Sardinia. 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

Sardinia,  which  is  like  nowhere.  Sardinia,  which  has 
no  history,  no  date,  no  race,  no  offering.  Let  it  be 
Sardinia.  They  say  neither  Romans  nor  Phoenicians, 
Greeks  nor  Arabs  ever  subdued  Sardinia.  It  lies  out- 
side ;  outside  the  circuit  of  civilisation.  Like  the 
Basque  lands.  Sure  enough,  it  is  Italian  now,  with  its 
railways  and  its  motor-omnibuses.  But  there  is  an 
uncaptured  Sardinia  still.  It  lies  within  the  net  of  this 
Eureopean  civilisation,  but  it  isn't  landed  yet.  And  the 
net  is  getting  old  and  tattered.  A  good  many  fish  are 
slipping  through  the  net  of  the  old  European  civilisa- 
tion. Like  that  great  whale  of  Russia.  And  probably 
even  Sardinia.  Sardinia  then.  Let  it  be  Sardinia. 

There  is  a  fortnightly  boat  sailing  from  Palermo — 
next  Wednesday,  three  days  ahead.  Let  us  go,  then. 
Away  from  abhorred  Etna,  and  the  Ionian  sea,  and 
these  great  stars  in  the  water,  and  the  almond  trees  in 
bud,  and  the  orange  trees  heavy  with  red  fruit,  and 
these  maddening,  exasperating,  impossible  Sicilians, 
who  never  knew  what  truth  was  and  have  long  lost 
all  notion  of  what  a  human  being  is.  A  sort  of  sul- 
phureous demons.  Andiamo! 

But  let  me  confess,  in  parenthesis,  that  I  am  not  at 
all  sure  whether  I  don't  really  prefer  these  demons 
to  our  sanctified  humanity. 

[  15  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Why  does  one  create  such  discomfort  for  oneself! 
To  have  to  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night — half  past 
one — to  go  and  look  at  the  clock.  Of  course  this  fraud 
of  an  American  watch  has  stopped,  with  its  impudent 
phosphorescent  face.  Half  past  one!  Half  past  one, 
and  a  dark  January  night.  Ah,  well!  Half  past  one! 
And  an  uneasy  sleep  till  at  last  it  is  five  o'clock.  Then 
light  a  candle  and  get  up. 

The  dreary  black  morning,  the  candle-light,  the 
house  looking  night-dismal.  Ah,  well,  one  does  all 
these  things  for  one's  pleasure.  So  light  the  charcoal 
fire  and  put  the  kettle  on.  The  queen  bee  shivering 
round  half  dressed,  fluttering  her  unhappy  candle. 

"It's  fun,"  she  says,  shuddering. 

"Great,"  say  I,  grim  as  death. 

First  fill  the  thermos  with  hot  tea.  Then  fry  bacon 
— good  English  bacon  from  Malta,  a  god-send,  in- 
deed— and  make  bacon  sandwiches.  Make  also  sand- 
wiches of  scrambled  eggs.  Make  also  bread  and  butter. 
Also  a  little  toast  for  breakfast — and  more  tea.  But 
ugh,  who  wants  to  eat  at  this  unearthly  hour,  especially 
when  one  is  escaping  from  bewitched  Sicily. 

Fill  the  little  bag  we  call  the  kitchenino.  Methy- 
lated spirit,  a  small  aluminium  saucepan,  a  spirit-lamp, 
two  spoons,  two  forks,  a  knife,  two  aluminium  plates, 
salt,  sugar,  tea — what  else?  The  thermos  flask,  the 

[  16  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

various  sandwiches,  four  apples,  and  a  little  tin  of 
butter.  So  much  for  the  kitchenino,  for  myself  and 
the  queen  bee.  Then  my  knapsack  and  the  q-b's 
handbag. 

Under  the  lid  of  the  half-cloudy  night  sky,  far 
away  at  the  rim  of  the  Ionian  sea,  the  first  light,  like 
metal  fusing.  So  swallow  the  cup  of  tea  and  the  bit 
of  toast.  Hastily  wash  up,  so  that  we  can  find  the 
house  decent  when  we  come  back.  Shut  the  door- 
windows  of  the  upper  terrace  and  go  down.  Lock  the 
door:  the  upper  half  of  the  house  made  fast. 

The  sky  and  sea  are  parting  like  an  oyster  shell,  with 
a  low  red  gape.  Looking  across  from  the  veranda 
at  it,  one  shivers.  Not  that  it  is  cold.  The  morning 
is  not  at  all  cold.  But  the  ominousness  of  it:  that  long 
red  slit  between  a  dark  sky  and  a  dark  Ionian  sea,  ter- 
rible old  bivalve  which  has  held  life  between  its  lips 
so  long.  And  here,  at  this  house,  we  are  ledged  so 
awfully  above  the  dawn,  naked  to  it. 

Fasten  the  door-windows  of  the  lower  veranda. 
One  won't  fasten  at  all.  The  summer  heat  warped 
it  one  way,  the  masses  of  autumn  rain  warped  it 
another.  Put  a  chair  against  it.  Lock  the  last  door 
and  hide  the  key.  Sling  the  knapsack  on  one's  back, 
take  the  kitchenino  in  one's  hand  and  look  round.  The 
dawn-red  widening,  between  the  purpling  sea  and  the 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

troubled  sky.  A  light  in  the  capucin  convent  across 
there.  Cocks  crowing  and  the  long,  howling,  hiccup- 
ing,  melancholy  bray  of  an  ass.  "All  females  are  dead, 
all  females-och!  och!  och! — hoooo!  Ahaa! — there's 
one  left."  So  he  ends  on  a  moaning  grunt  of  consola- 
tion. This  is  what  the  Arabs  tell  us  an  ass  is  howling 
when  he  brays. 

Very  dark  under  the  great  carob  tree  as  we  go  down 
the  steps.  Dark  still  the  garden.  Scent  of  mimosa, 
and  then  of  jasmine.  The  lovely  mimosa  tree  in- 
visible. Dark  the  stony  path.  The  goat  whinnies  out 
of  her  shed.  The  broken  Roman  tomb  which  lolls 
right  over  the  garden  track  does  not  fall  on  me  as  I 
slip  under  its  massive  tilt.  Ah,  dark  garden,  dark 
garden,  with  your  olives  and  your  wine,  your  medlars 
and  mulberries  and  many  almond  trees,  your  steep 
terraces  ledged  high  up  above  the  sea,  I  am  leaving 
you,  slinking  out.  Out  between  the  rosemary  hedges, 
out  of  the  tall  gate,  on  to  the  cruel  steep  stony  road. 
So  under  the  dark,  big  eucalyptus  trees,  over  the 
stream,  and  up  towards  the  village.  There,  I  have 
got  so  far. 

It  is  full  dawn — dawn,  not  morning,  the  sun  will 
not  have  risen.  The  village  is  nearly  all  dark  in  the 

t  18  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

red  light,  and  asleep  still.  No  one  at  the  fountain  by 
the  capucin  gate:  too  dark  still.  One  man  leading  a 
horse  round  the  corner  of  the  Palazzo  Corvaia.  One 
or  two  dark  men  along  the  Corso.  And  so  over  the 
brow,  down  the  steep  cobble-stone  street  between  the 
houses,  and  out  to  the  naked  hill  front.  This  is  the 
dawn-coast  of  Sicily.  Nay,  the  dawn-coast  of  Europe. 
Steep,  like  a  vast  cliff,  dawn-forward.  A  red  dawn, 
with  mingled  curdling  dark  clouds,  and  some  gold. 
It  must  be  seven  o'clock.  The  station  down  below, 
by  the  sea.  And  noise  of  a  train.  Yes,  a  train.  And 
we  still  high  on  the  steep  track,  winding  downwards. 
But  it  is  the  train  from  Messina  to  Catania,  half  an 
hour  before  ours,  which  is  from  Catania  to  Messina. 

So  jolt,  and  drop,  and  jolt  down  the  old  road  that 
winds  on  the  cliff  face.  Etna  across  there  is  smothered 
quite  low,  quite  low  in  a  dense  puther  of  ink-black 
clouds.  Playing  some  devilry  in  private,  no  doubt. 
The  dawn  is  angry  red,  and  yellow  above,  the  sea  takes 
strange  colors.  I  hate  the  station,  pigmy,  drawn  out 
there  beside  the  sea.  On  this  steep  face,  especially  in 
the  windless  nooks,  the  almond  blossom  is  already  out. 
In  little  puffs  and  specks  and  stars,  it  looks  very  like 
bits  of  snow  scattered  by  winter.  Bits  of  snow,  bits 
of  blossom,  fourth  day  of  the  year  1921.  Only  bios- 

[  19  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

som.  And  Etna  indescribably  cloaked  and  secretive  in 
her  dense  black  clouds.  She  has  wrapped  them  quite 
round  her,  quite  low  round  her  skirts. 

At  last  we  are  down.  We  pass  the  pits  where  men 
are  burning  lime — red-hot,  round  pits — and  are  out  on 
the  highway.  Nothing  can  be  more  depressing  than  an 
Italian  high-road.  From  Syracuse  to  Airolo  it  is  the 
same:  horrible,  dreary,  slummy  high-roads  the  moment 
you  approach  a  village  or  any  human  habitation.  Here 
there  is  an  acrid  smell  of  lemon  juice.  There  is  a  fac- 
tory for  making  citrate.  The  houses  flush  on  the  road, 
under  the  great  limestone  face  of  the  hill,  open  their 
slummy  doors,  and  throw  out  dirty  water  and  coffee 
dregs.  We  walk  over  the  dirty  water  and  coffee  dregs. 
Mules  rattle  past  with  carts.  Other  people  are  going 
to  the  station.  We  pass  the  Dazio  and  are  there. 

Humanity  is,  externally,  too  much  alike.  Internally 
there  are  insuperable  differences.  So  one  sits  and 
thinks,  watching  the  people  on  the  station:  like  a  line 
of  caricatures  between  oneself  and  the  naked  sea  and 
the  uneasy,  clouding  dawn. 

You  would  look  in  vain  this  morning  for  the  swarthy 
feline  southerner  of  romance.  It  might,  as  far  as 
features  are  concerned,  be  an  early  morning  crowd 

[  20] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

waiting  for  the  train  on  a  north  London  suburb  station. 
As  far  as  features  go.  For  some  are  fair  and  some 
colorless  and  none  racially  typical.  The  only  one  that 
is  absolutely  like  a  race  caricature  is  a  tall  stout  elderly 
fellow  with  spectacles  and  a  short  nose  and  a  bristling 
moustache,  and  he  is  the  German  of  the  comic  papers 
of  twenty  years  ago.  But  he  is  pure  Sicilian. 

They  are  mostly  young  fellows  going  up  the  line  to 
Messina  to  their  job:  not  artizans,  lower  middle  class. 
And  externally,  so  like  any  other  clerks  and  shop- 
men, only  rather  more  shabby,  much  less  socially  self- 
conscious.  They  are  lively,  they  throw  their  arms 
round  one  another's  necks,  they  all  but  kiss.-  One  poor 
chap  has  had  earache,  so  a  black  kerchief  is  tied  round 
his  face,  and  his  black  hat  is  perched  above,  and  a  comic 
sight  he  looks.  No  one  seems  to  think  so,  however. 
Yet  they  view  my  arrival  with  a  knapsack  on  my  back 
with  cold  disapprobation,  as  unseemly  as  if  I  had 
arrived  riding  on  a  pig.  I  ought  to  be  in  a  carriage, 
and  the  knapsack  ought  to  be  a  new  suitcase.  I  know 
it,  but  am  inflexible. 

That  is  how  they  are.  Each  one  thinks  he  is  as 
handsome  as  Adonis,  and  as  "fetching"  as  Don  Juan. 
Extraordinary!  At  the  same  time,  all  flesh  is  grass, 
and  if  a  few  trouser-buttons  are  missing  or  if  a  black 
hat  perches  above  a  thick  black  face-muffle  and  a  long 

[  21  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

excruciated  face,  it  is  all  in  the  course  of  nature.  They 
seize  the  black-edged  one  by  the  arm,  and  in  profound 
commiseration:  "Do  you  suffer?  Are  you  suffering?" 
they  ask. 

And  that  also  is  how  they  are.  So  terribly  physically 
all  over  one  another.  They  pour  themselves  one  over 
the  other  like  so  much  melted  butter  over  parsnips. 
They  catch  each  other  under  the  chin,  with  a  tender 
caress  of  the  hand,  and  they  smile  with  sunny  melting 
tenderness  into  each  other's  face.  Never  in  the  world 
have  I  seen  such  melting  gay  tenderness  as  between 
casual  Sicilians  on  railway  platforms,  whether  they  be 
young  lean-cheeked  Sicilians  or  huge  stout  Sicilians. 

There  must  be  something  curious  about  the  proximity 
of  a  volcano.  Naples  and  Catania  alike,  the  men  are 
hugely  fat,  with  great  macaroni  paunches,  they  are 
expansive  and  in  a  perfect  drip  of  casual  affection  and 
love.  But  the  Sicilians  are  even  more  wildly  exur- 
berant  and  fat  and  all  over  one  another  than  the  Nea- 
politans. They  never  leave  off  being  amorously 
friendly  with  almost  everybody,  emitting  a  relentless 
physical  familiarity  that  is  quite  bewildering  to  one 
not  brought  up  near  a  volcano. 

This  is  more  true  of  the  middle  classes  than  of  the 
lower.  The  working  men  are  perforce  thinner  and 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

less  exuberant.     But  they  hang  together  in  clusters, 
and  can  never  be  physically  near  enough. 

It  is  only  thirty  miles  to  Messina,  but  the  train  takes 
two  hours.  It  winds  and  hurries  and  stops  beside  the 
lavender  grey  morning  sea.  A  flock  of  goats  trail  over 
the  beach  near  the  lapping  wave's  edge,  dismally. 
Great  wide  deserts  of  stony  river-beds  run  down  to  the 
sea,  and  men1  on  asses  are  picking  their  way  across,  and 
women  are  kneeling  by  the  small  stream-channel  wash- 
ing clothes.  The  lemons  hang  pale  and  innumerable 
in  the  thick  lemon  groves.  Lemon  trees,  like  Italians, 
seem  to  be  happiest  when  they  are  touching  one  another 
all  round.  Solid  forests  of  not  very  tall  lemon  trees 
lie  between  the  steep  mountains  and  the  sea,  on  the 
strip  of  plain.  Women,  vague  in  the  orchard  under- 
shadow,  are  picking  the  lemons,  lurking  as  if  in  the 
undersea.  There  are  heaps  of  pale  yellow  lemons 
under  the  trees.  They  look  like  pale,  primrose-smoul- 
dering fires.  Curious  how  like  fires  the  heaps  of  lemons 
look,  under  the  shadow  of  foliage,  seeming  to  give  off 
a  pallid  burning  amid  the  suave,  naked,  greenish  trunks. 
When  there  comes  a  cluster  of  orange  trees,  the  oranges 
are  red  like  coals  among  the  darker  leaves.  But  lemons, 
lemons,  innumerable,  speckled  like  innumerable  tiny 
stars  in  the  green  firmament  of  leaves.  So  many 

[  23  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

lemons!     Think  of  all  the  lemonade  crystals  they  will 
be  reduced  to!     Think  of  America  drinking  them  up 

next  summer. 

tr 

I  always  wonder  why  such  vast  wide  river-beds  of 
pale  boulders  come  out  of  the  heart  of  the  high-rearing, 
dramatic  stone  mountains,  a  few  miles  to  the  sea.  A 
few  miles  only:  and  never  more  than  a  few  threading 
water- trickles  in  river-beds  wide  enough  for  the  Rhine. 
But  that  is  how  it  is.  The  landscape  is  ancient,  and 
classic — romantic,  as  if  it  had  known  far-off  days  and 
fiercer  rivers  and  more  verdure.  Steep,  craggy,  wild, 
the  land  goes  up  to  its  points  and  precipices,  a  tangle  of 
heights.  But  all  jammed  on  top  of  one  another.  And 
in  old  landscapes,  as  in  old  people,  the  flesh  wears  away, 
and  the  bones  become  prominent.  Rock  sticks  up  fan- 
tastically. The  jungle  of  peaks  in  this  old  Sicily. 

The  sky  is  all  grey.  The  Straits  are  grey.  Reggio, 
just  across  the  water,  is  white  looking,  under  the  great 
dark  toe  of  Calabria,  the  toe  of  Italy.  On  Aspromonte 
there  is  grey  cloud.  It  is  going  to  rain.  After  such 
marvelous  ringing  blue  days,  it  is  going  to  rain.  What 
luck! 

I 

Aspromonte!    Garibaldi!    I  could  always  cover  my 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

face  when  I  see  it,  Aspromonte.  I  wish  Garibaldi  had 
been  prouder.  Why  did  he  go  off  so  humbly,  with  his 
bag  of  seed-corn  and  a  flea  in  his  ear,  when  His 
Majesty  King  Victor  Emmanuel  arrived  with  his  little 
short  legs  on  the  scene.  Poor  Garibaldi !  He  wanted  to 
be  a  hero  and  a  dictator  of  free  Sicily.  Well,  one  can't 
be  a  dictator  and  humble  at  the  same  time.  One  must 
be  a  hero,  which  he  was,  and  proud,  which  he  wasn't. 
Besides  people  don't  nowadays  choose  proud  heroes  for 
governors.  Anything  but.  They  prefer  constitutional 
monarchs,  who  are  paid  servants  and  who  know  it. 
That  is  democracy.  Democracy  admires  its  own  ser- 
vants and  nothing  else.  And  you  couldn't  make  a  real 
servant  even  of  Garibaldi.  Only  of  His  Majesty  King 
Victor  Emmanuel.  So  Italy  chose  Victor  Emmanuel, 
and  Garibaldi  went  off  with  a  corn  bag  and  a  whack 
on  the  behind  like  a  humble  ass. 

It  is  raining — dismally,  dismally  raining.  And  this 
is  Messina  coming.  Oh  horrible  Messina,  earthquake- 
shattered  and  renewing  your  youth  like  a  vast  mining 
settlement,  with  rows  and  streets  and  miles  of  concrete 
shanties,  squalor  and  a  big  street  with  shops  and  gaps 
and  broken  houses  still,  just  back  of  the  tram-lines, 
and  a  dreary  squalid  earthquake-hopeless  port  in  a 
lovely  harbor.  People  don't  forget  and  don't  recover. 

[  25  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

The  people  of  Messina  seem  to  be  today  what  they 
were  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  after  the  earthquake: 
people  who  have  had  a  terrible  shock,  and  for  whom 
all  life's  institutions  are  really  nothing,  neither  civili- 
zation nor  purpose.  The  meaning  of  everything  all 
came  down  with  a  smash  in  that  shuddering  earthquake, 
and  nothing  remains  but  money  and  the  throes  of  some 
sort  of  sensation.  Messina  between  the  volcanoes, 
Etna  and  Stromboli,  having  known  the  death-agony's 
terror.  I  always  dread  coming  near  the  awful  place, 
yet  I  have  found  the  people  kind,  almost  feverishly  so, 
as  if  they  knew  the  awful  need  for  kindness. 

Raining,  raining  hard.  Clambering  down  on  to  the 
wet  platform  and  walking  across  the  wet  lines  to  the 
cover.  Many  human  beings  scurrying  across  the  wet 
lines,  among  the  wet  trains,  to  get  out  into  the  ghastly 
town  beyond.  Thank  heaven  one  need  not  go  out  into 
the  town.  Two  convicts  chained  together  among  the 
crowd — and  two  soldiers.  The  prisoners  wear  fawny 
homespun  clothes,  of  cloth  such  as  the  peasants  weave, 
with  irregularly  occurring  brown  stripes.  Rather  nice 
handmade  rough  stuff.  But  linked  together,  dear  God! 
And  those  horrid  caps  on  their  hairless  foreheads.  No 
hair.  Probably  they  are  going  to  a  convict  station  on 
the  Lipari  islands.  The  people  take  no  notice. 

[  26  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

No,  but  convicts  are  horrible  creatures:  at  least,  the 
old  one  is,  with  his  long,  nasty  face:  his  long,  clean- 
shaven, horrible  face,  without  emotions,  or  with 
emotions  one  cannot  follow.  Something  cold,  sightless. 
A  sightless,  ugly  look.  I  should  loathe  to  have  to  touch 
him.  Of  the  other  I  am  not  so  sure.  He  is  younger, 
and  with  dark  eyebrows.  But  a  roundish,  softish  face, 
with  a  sort  of  leer.  No,  evil  is  horrible.  I  used  to 
think  there  was  no  absolute  evil.  Now  I  know  there 
is  a  great  deal.  So  much  that  it  threatens  life  alto- 
gether. That  ghastly  abstractness  of  criminals.  They 
don't  know  any  more  what  other  people  feel.  Yet 
some  horrible  force  drives  them. 

It  is  a  great  mistake  to  abolish  the  death  penalty. 
If  I  were  dictator,  I  should  order  the  old  one  to  be 
hung  at  once.  I  should  have  judges  with  sensitive, 
living  hearts:  not  abstract  intellects.  And  because  the 
instinctive  heart  recognised  a  man  as  evil,  I  would  have 
that  man  destroyed.  Quickly.  Because  good  warm  life 
is  now  in  danger. 

Standing  on  Messina  station — dreary,  dreary  hole — 
and  watching  the  winter  rain  and  seeing  the  pair  of 
convicts,  I  must  remember  again  Oscar  Wilde  on  Read- 
ing platform,  a  convict.  What  a  terrible  mistake,  to 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

let  oneself  be  martyred  by  a  lot  of  canaille.     A  man 
must  say  his  say.     But  noli  me  tangere. 

Curious  these  people  are.  Up  and  down,  up  and 
down  go  a  pair  of  officials.  The  young  one  in  a  black 
gold-laced  cap  talks  to  the  elder  in  a  scarlet  gold-laced 
cap.  And  he  walks,  the  young  one,  with  a  mad  little 
hop,  and  his  fingers  fly  as  if  he  wanted  to  scatter  them 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  and  his  words  go  off  like 
fireworks,  with  more  than  Sicilian  speed.  On  and  on, 
up  and  down,  and  his  eye  is  dark  and  excited  and  un- 
seeing, like  the  eye  of  a  fleeing  rabbit.  Strange  and 
beside  itself  is  humanity. 

What  a  lot  of  officials!  You  know  them  by  their 
caps.  Elegant  tubby  little  officials  in  kid-and-patent 
boots  and  gold-laced  caps,  tall  long-nosed  ones  in  more 
gold-laced  caps,  like  angels  in  and  out  of  the  gates  of 
heaven  they  thread  in  and  out  of  the  various  doors.  As 
far  as  I  can  see,  there  are  three  scarlet  station-masters, 
five  black-and-gold  substation-masters,  and  a  countless 
number  of  principalities  and  powers  in  more  or  less 
broken  boots  and  official  caps.  They  are  like  bees 
round  a  hive,  humming  in  an  important  conversazione, 
and  occasionally  looking  at  some  paper  or  other,  and 
extracting  a  little  official  honey.  But  the  conversazione 
is  the  affair  of  affairs.  To  an  Italian  official,  life  seems 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

to  be  one  long  and  animated  conversation — the  Italian 
word  is  better — interrupted  by  casual  trains  and  tele- 
phones. And  besides  the  angels  of  heaven's  gates,  there 
are  the  mere  ministers,  porters,  lamp-cleaners,  etc. 
These  stand  in  groups  and  talk  socialism.  A  lamp- 
man  slashes  along,  swinging  a  couple  of  lamps.  Bashes 
one  against  a  barrow.  Smash  goes  the  glass.  Looks 
down  as  if  to  say,  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  Glances 
over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  any  member  of  the  higher 
hierarchies  is  looking.  Seven  members  of  higher  hier- 
archies are  assiduously  not  looking.  On  goes  the  min- 
ister with  the  lamp,  blithely.  Another  pane  or  two 
gone.  Vogue  la  galere. 

Passengers  have  gathered  again,  some  in  hoods,  some 
in  nothing.  Youths  in  thin,  paltry  clothes  stand  out 
in  the  pouring  rain  as  if  they  did  not  know  it  was  rain- 
ing. One  sees  their  coat-shoulders  soaked.  And  yet 
they  do  not  trouble  to  keep  under  shelter.  Two  large 
station  dogs  run  about  and  trot  through  the  standing 
trains,  just  like  officials.  They  climb  up  the  footboard, 
hop  into  a  train  and  hop  out  casually  when  they  feel 
like  it.  Two  or  three  port-porters,  in  canvas  hats  as 
big  as  umbrellas,  literally,  spreading  like  huge  fins  over 
their  shoulders,  are  looking  into  more  empty  trains. 
More  and  more  people  appear.  More  and  more  official 
caps  stand  about.  It  rains  and  rains.  The  train  for 

[    29    ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Palermo  and  the  train  for  Syracuse  are  both  an  hour 
late  already,  coming  from  the  port.  Flea-bite. 
Though  these  are  the  great  connections  from  Rome. 

Loose  locomotives  trundle  back  and  forth,  vaguely, 
like  black  dogs  running  and  turning  back.  The  port  is 
only  four  minutes'  walk.  If  it  were  not  raining  so  hard, 
we  would  go  down,  walk  along  the  lines  and  get  into 
the  waiting  train  down  there.  Anybody  may  please 
himself.  There  is  the  funnel  of  the  great  unwieldy 
ferry-object — she  is  just  edging  in.  That  means  the 
connection  from  the  mainland  at  last.  But  it  is  cold, 
standing  here.  We  eat  a  bit  of  bread  and  butter  from 
the  kitchenino  in  resignation.  After  all,  what  is  an 
hour  and  a  half?  It  might  just  as  easily  be  five  hours, 
as  it  was  the  last  time  we  came  down  from  Rome.  And 
the  wagon-tit y  booked  to  Syracuse,  calmly  left  stranded 
in  the  station  of  Messina,  to  go  no  further.  All  get 
out  and  find  yourselves  rooms  for  the  night  in  vile 
Messina.  Syracuse  or  no  Syracuse,  Malta  boat  or  no 
Malta  boat.  We  are  the  Ferrovia  dello  Stato. 

But  there,  why  grumble.  Noi  Italiani  siamo  cosi 
buoni.  Take  it  from  their  own  mouth. 

Ecco!  Finalmente!  The  crowd  is  quite  joyful  as 
the  two  express  trains  surge  proudly  in,  after  their 
half-a-mile  creep.  Plenty  of  room,  for  once.  Though 

[  30  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

the  carriage  floor  is  a  puddle,  and  the  roof  leaks.    This 
is  second  class. 

Slowly,  with  two  engines,  we  grunt  and  chuff  and 
twist  to  get  over  the  break-neck  heights  that  shut  Mes- 
sina in  from  the  north  coast.  The  windows  are  opaque 
with  steam  and  drops  of  rain.  No  matter — tea  from 
the  thermos  flask,  to  the  great  interest  of  the  other  two 
passengers  who  had  nervously  contemplated  the  un- 
known object. 

"Ha!"  says  he  with  joy,  seeing  the  hot  tea  come  out. 
"It  has  the  appearance  of  a  bomb." 

"Beautiful  hot! "  says  she,  with  real  admiration.  All 
apprehension  at  once  dissipated,  peace  reigns  in  the  wet, 
mist-hidden  compartment.  We  run  through  miles  and 
miles  of  tunnel.  The  Italians  have  made  wonderful 
roads  and  railways. 

If  one  rubs  the  window  and  looks  out,  lemon  groves 
with  many  wet-white  lemons,  earthquake — broken 
houses,  new  shanties,  a  grey  weary  sea  on  the  right 
hand,  and  on  the  left  the  dim,  grey  complication  of 
steep  heights  from  which  issue  stone  river-beds  of  in- 
ordinate width,  and  sometimes  a  road,  a  man  on  a  mule. 
Sometimes  near  at  hand,  long-haired,  melancholy  goats 
leaning  sideways  like  tilted  ships  under  the  eaves  of 

[  31  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

some  scabby  house.  They  call  the  house-eaves  the 
dogs'  umbrellas.  In  town  you  see  the  dogs  trotting 
close  under  the  wall  out  of  the  wet.  Here  the  goats 
lean  like  rock,  listing  inwards  to  the  plaster  wall.  Why 
look  out? 

Sicilian  railways  are  all  single  line.  Hence,  the 
coincidenza.  A  coincidenza  is  where  two  trains  meet 
in  a  loop.  You  sit  in  a  world  of  rain  and  waiting  until 
some  silly  engine  with  four  trucks  puffs  alongside. 
Ecco  la  coincidenza!  Then  after  a  brief  conversazione 
between  the  two  trains,  diretto  and  mercey  express  and 
goods,  the  tin  horn  sounds  and  away  we  go,  happily, 
towards  the  next  coincidence.  Clerks  away  ahead  joy- 
fully chalk  up  our  hours  of  lateness  on  the  announce- 
ment slate.  All  adds  to  the  adventurous  flavour  of  the 
journey,  dear  heart.  We  come  to  a  station  where  we 
find  the  other  diretto,  the  express  from  the  other  direc- 
tion, awaiting  our  coincidential  arrival.  The  two  trains 
run  alongside  one  another,  like  two  dogs  meeting  in 
the  street  and  snuffing  one  another.  Every  official 
rushes  to  greet  every  other  official,  as  if  they  were  all 
David  and  Jonathan  meeting  after  a  crisis.  They  rush 
into  each  other's  arms  and  exchange  cigarettes.  And 
the  trains  can't  bear  to  part.  And  the  station  can't  bear 
to  part  with  us.  The  officials  tease  themselves  and  us 
with  the  word  pronto,  meaning  ready!  Pronto!  And 

[  32  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

again  Pronto!  And  shrill  whistles.  Anywhere  else  a 
train  would  go  off  its  tormented  head.  But  no!  Here 
only  that  angel's  trump  of  an  official  little  horn  will  do 
the  business.  And  get  them  to  blow  that  horn  if  you 
can.  They  can't  bear  to  part. 

Rain,  continual  rain,  a  level  grey  wet  sky,  a  level 
grey  wet  sea,  a  wet  and  misty  train  winding  round  and 
round  the  little  bays,  diving  through  tunnels.  Ghosts 
of  the  unpleasant-looking  Lipari  islands  standing  a 
little  way  out  to  sea,  heaps  of  shadow  deposited  like 
rubbish  heaps  in  the  universal  greyness. 

Enter  more  passengers.  An  enormously  large 
woman  with  an  extraordinarily  handsome  face:  an  ex- 
traordinarily large  man,  quite  young:  and  a  diminutive 
servant,  a  little  girl-child  of  about  thirteen,  with  a  beau- 
tiful face. — But  the  Juno — it  is  she  who  takes  my 
breath  away.  She  is  quite  young,  in  her  thirties  still. 
She  has  that  queenly  stupid  beauty  of  a  classic  Hera: 
a  pure  brow  with  level  dark  brows,  large,  dark,  bridling 
eyes,  a  straight  nose,  a  chiselled  mouth,  an  air  of  remote 
self-consciousness.  She  sends  one's  heart  straight  back 
to  pagan  days.  And — and — she  is  simply  enormous, 
like  a  house.  She  wears  a  black  toque  with  sticking-up 
wings,  and  a  black  rabbit  fur  spread  on  her  shoulders, 

[  33  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

She  edges  her  way  in  carefully:  and  once  seated,  is  ter- 
rified to  rise  to  her  feet.  She  sits  with  that  motionless- 
ness  of  her  type,  closed  lips,  face  muted  and  expres- 
sionless. And  she  expects  me  to  admire  her:  I  can  see 
that.  She  expects  me  to  pay  homage  to  her  beauty: 
just  to  that:  not  homage  to  herself,  but  to  her  as  a  bel 
'pezzo.  She  casts  little  aloof  glances  at  me  under  her 
eyelids. 

It  is  evident  she  is  a  country  beauty  become  a  bour- 
geoise.  She  speaks  unwillingly  to  the  other  squint- 
eyed  passenger,  a  young  woman  who  also  wears  a  black- 
rabbit  fur,  but  without  pretensions. 

The  husband  of  Juno  is  a  fresh-faced  bourgeois 
young  fellow,  and  he  also  is  simply  huge.  His  waist- 
coat would  almost  make  the  overcoat  of  the  fourth 
passenger,  the  unshaven  companion  of  the  squinting 
young  woman.  The  young  Jupiter  wears  kid  gloves: 
a  significant  fact  here.  He,  too,  has  pretensions.  But 
he  is  quite  affable  with  the  unshaven  one,  and  speaks 
Italian  unaffectedly.  Whereas  Juno  speaks  the  dialect 
with  affectation. 

No  one  takes  any  notice  of  the  little  maid.  She  has 
a  gentle,  virgin  moon-face,  and  those  lovely  grey 
Sicilian  eyes  that  are  translucent,  and  into  which  the 
light  sinks  and  becomes  black  sometimes,  sometimes 
dark  blue.  She  carries  the  bag  and  the  extra  coat  of 

[  34  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

the  huge  Juno,  and  sits  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  between 
me  and  the  unshaven,  Juno  having  motioned  her  there 
with  a  regal  inclination  of  the  head. 

The  little  maid  is  rather  frightened.  Perhaps  she  is 
an  orphan  child — probably.  Her  nut-brown  hair  is 
smoothly  parted  and  done  in  two  pigtails.  She  wears 
no  hat,  as  is  proper  for  her  class.  On  her  shoulders 
one  of  those  little  knitted  grey  shoulder-capes  that  one 
associates  with  orphanages.  Her  stuff  dress  is  dark 
grey,  her  boots  are  strong. 

The  smooth,  moon-like,  expressionless  virgin  face, 
rather  pale  and  touching,  rather  frightened,  of  the  girl- 
child.  A  perfect  face  from  a  mediaeval  picture.  It 
moves  one  strangely.  Why?  It  is  so  unconscious,  as 
we  are  conscious.  Like  a  little  muted  animal  it  sits 
there,  in  distress.  She  is  going  to  be  sick.  She  goes 
into  the  corridor  and  is  sick — very  sick,  leaning  her  head 
like  a  sick  dog  on  the  window-ledge.  Jupiter  towers 
above  her — not  unkind,  and  apparently  feeling  no  re- 
pugnance. The  physical  convulsion  of  the  girl  does 
not  affect  him  as  it  affects  us.  He  looks  on  unmoved, 
merely  venturing  to  remark  that  she  had  eaten  too  much 
before  coming  on  to  the  train.  An  obviously  true  re- 
mark. After  which  he  comes  and  talks  a  few  common- 
places to  me.  By  and  by  the  girl-child  creeps  in  again 
and  sits  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  facing  Juno.  But  no, 

[  35  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

says  Juno,  if  she  is  sick  she  will  be  sick  over  me.  So 
Jupiter  accommodatingly  changes  places  with  the  girl- 
child,  who  is  thus  next  to  me.  She  sits  on  the  edge  of 
the  seat  with  folded  little  red  hands,  her  face  pale  and 
expressionless.  Beautiful  the  thin  line  of  her  nut- 
brown  eyebrows,  the  dark  lashes  of  the  silent,  pellucid 
dark  eyes.  Silent,  motionless,  like  a  sick  animal. 

But  Juno  tells  her  to  wipe  her  splashed  boots.  The 
child  gropes  for  a  piece  of  paper.  Juno  tells  her  to 
take  her  pocket  handkerchief.  Feebly  the  sick  girl- 
child  wipes  her  boots,  then  leans  back.  But  no  good. 
She  has  to  go  in  the  corridor  and  be  sick  again. 

After  a  while  they  all  get  out.  Queer  to  see  people 
so  natural.  Neither  Juno  nor  Jupiter  is  in  the  least 
unkind.  He  even  seems  kind.  But  they  are  just  not 
upset.  Not  half  as  upset  as  we  are — the  q-b  want- 
ing to  administer  tea,  and  so  on.  We  should  have 
to  hold  the  child's  head.  They  just  quite  naturally 
leave  it  alone  to  its  convulsions,  and  are  neither  dis- 
tressed nor  repelled.  It  just  is  so. 

Their  naturalness  seems  unnatural  to  us.  Yet  I  am 
sure  it  is  best.  Sympathy  would  only  complicate  mat- 
ters, and  spoil  that  strange,  remote  virginal  quality. 
The  q-b  says  it  is  largely  stupidity. 

Nobody  washes   out   the   corner   of   the   corridor, 

[  36  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

though  we  stop  at  stations  long  enough,  and  there  are 
two  more  hours  journey.  Train  officials  go  by  and 
stare,  passengers  step  over  and  stare,  new-comers  stare 
and  step  over.  Somebody  asks  who?  Nobody  thinks 
of  just  throwing  a  pail  of  water.  Why  should  they? 
It  is  all  in  the  course  of  nature. — One  begins  to  be  a 
bit  chary  of  this  same  "nature",  in  the  south. 

Enter  two  fresh  passengers:  a  black-eyed,  round- 
faced,  bright-sharp  man  in  corduroys  and  with  a  gun, 
and  a  long-faced,  fresh-colored  man  with  thick  snowy 
hair,  and  a  new  hat  and  a  long  black  overcoat  of 
smooth  black  cloth,  lined  with  rather  ancient,  once 
expensive  fur.  He  is  extremely  proud  of  this  long 
black  coat  and  ancient  fur  lining.  Childishly  proud 
he  wraps  it  again  over  his  knee,  and  gloats.  The 
beady  black-eyes  of  the  hunter  look  round  with  pleased 
alertness.  He  sits  facing  the  one  in  the  overcoat,  who 
looks  like  the  last  sprout  of  some  Norman  blood.  The 
hunter  in  corduroys  beams  abroad,  with  beady  black 
eyes  in  a  round  red  face,  curious.  And  the  other  tucks 
his  fur-lined  long  coat  between  his  legs  and  gloats  to 
himself:  all  to  himself  gloating,  and  looking  as  if  he 
were  deaf.  But  no,  he's  not.  He  wears  muddy  high- 
low  boots. 

At  Termini  it  is  already  lamp-light.     Business  men 

[  37  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

crowd  in.  We  get  five  business  men:  all  stout, 
respected  Palermitans.  The  one  opposite  me  has 
whiskers,  and  a  many-colored,  patched  traveling  rug 
over  his  fat  knees.  Queer  how  they  bring  that  feeling 
of  physical  intimacy  with  them.  You  are  never  sur- 
prised if  they  begin  to  take  off  their  boots,  or  their 
collar-and-tie.  The  whole  world  is  a  sort  of  bedroom 
to  them.  One  shrinks,  but  in  vain. 

There  is  some  conversation  between  the  black-eyed, 
beady  hunter  and  the  business  men.  Also  the  young 
white-haired  one,  the  aristocrat,  tries  to  stammer  out, 
at  great  length,  a  few  words.  As  far  as  I  can  gather 
the  young  one  is  mad — or  deranged — and  the  other, 
the  hunter,  is  his  keeper.  They  are  traveling  over 
Europe  together.  There  is  some  talk  of  "the  Count". 
And  the  hunter  says  the  unfortunate  "has  had  an  acci- 
dent." But  that  is  a  southern  gentleness  presumably, 
a  form  of  speech.  Anyhow  it  is  queer:  and  the  hunter 
in  his  corduroys,  with  his  round,  ruddy  face  and  strange 
black-bright  eyes  and  thin  black  hair  is  a  puzzle  to  me, 
even  more  than  the  albino,  long-coated,  long-faced, 
fresh-complexioned,  queer  last  remnant  of  a  baron  as 
he  is.  They  are  both  muddy  from  the  land,  and 
pleased  in  a  little  mad  way  of  their  own. 

But  it  is  half-past  six.  We  are  at  Palermo,  capital 
of  Sicily.  The  hunter  slings  his  gun  over  his  shoulder, 

[  38  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

I  my  knapsack,  and  in  the  throng  we  all  disappear,  into 
the  Via  Maqueda. 

Palermo  has  two  great  streets,  the  Via  Maqueda,  and 
the  Corso,  which  cross  each  other  at  right-angles. 
The  Via  Maqueda  is  narrow,  with  narrow  little  pave- 
ments, and  is  always  choked  with  carriages  and  foot- 
passengers. 

It  had  ceased  raining.  But  the  narrow  road  was 
paved  with  large,  convex  slabs  of  hard  stone,  inexpress- 
ibly greasy.  To  cross  the  Via  Maqueda  therefore  was 
a  feat.  However,  once  accomplished,  it  was  done. 
The  near  end  of  the  street  was  rather  dark,  and  had 
mostly  vegetable  shops.  Abundance  of  vegetables — 
piles  of  white-and-green  fennel,  like  celery,  and  great 
sheaves  of  young,  purplish,  sea-dust-colored  artichokes, 
nodding  their  buds,  piles  of  big  radishes,  scarlet  and 
bluey  purple,  carrots,  long  strings  of  dried  figs,  moun- 
tains of  big  oranges,  scarlet  large  peppers,,  a  last  slice 
of  pumpkin,  a  great  mass  of  colors  and  vegetable  fresh- 
nesses. A  mountain  of  black-purple  cauliflowers,  like 
niggers'  heads,  and  a  mountain  of  snow-white  ones 
next  to  them.  How  the  dark,  greasy,  night-stricken 
street  seems  to  beam  with  these  vegetables,  all  this 
fresh  delicate  flesh  of  luminous  vegetables  piled  there 
in  the  air,  and  in  the  recesses  of  the  windowless  little 

[  39  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

caverns  of  the  shops,  and  gleaming  forth  on  the  dark 
air,  under  the  lamps.  The  q-b  at  once  wants  to  buy 
vegetables.  "Look!  Look  at  the  snow-white  broc- 
coli. Look  at  the  huge  finocchi.  Why  don't  we  get 
them?  I  must  have  some.  Look  at  those  great  clus- 
ters of  dates — ten  francs  a  kilo,  and  we  pay  sixteen. 
It's  monstrous.  Our  place  is  simply  monstrous." 

For  all  that,  one  doesn't  buy  vegetables  to  take  to 
Sardinia. 

Cross  the  Corso  at  that  decorated  maelstrom  and 
death-trap  of  the  Quattro  Canti.  I,  of  course,  am 
nearly  knocked  down  and  killed.  Somebody  is  nearly 
knocked  down  and  killed  every  two  minutes.  But 
there — the  carriages  are  light,  and  the  horses  curiously 
aware  creatures.  They  would  never  tread  on  one. 

The  second  part  of  the  Via  Maqueda  is  the  swell 
part:  silks  and  plumes,  and  an  infinite  number  of  shirts 
and  ties  and  cuff-links  and  mufflers  and  men's  fancies. 
One  realises  here  that  man-drapery  and  man-under- 
wear is  quite  as  important  as  woman's,  if  not  more. 

I,  of  course,  in  a  rage.  The  q-b  stares  at  every  rag 
and  stitch,  and  crosses  and  re-crosses  this  infernal  dark 
stream  of  a  Via  Maqueda,  which,  as  I  have  said,  is 
choked  solid  with  strollers  and  carriages.  Be  it  re- 
membered that  I  have  on  my  back  the  brown  knapsack, 
and  the  q-b  carries  the  kitchenino.  This  is  enough  to 

[40] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

make  a  travelling  menagerie  of  us.  If  I  had  my 
shirt  sticking  out  behind,  and  if  the  q-b  had  happened 
merely  to  catch  up  the  table-cloth  and  wrap  it  round 
her  as  she  came  out,  all  well  and  good.  But  a  big 
brown  knapsack!  And  a  basket  with  thermos  flask, 
etc!  No,  one  could  not  expect  such  things  to  pass  in 
a  southern  capital. 

But  I  am  case-hardened.  And  I  am  sick  of  shops. 
True,  we  have  not  been  in  a  town  for  three  months. 
But  can  I  care  for  the  innumerable  fantasias  in  the 
drapery  line?  Every  wretched  bit  of  would-be-extra 
chic  is  called  a  fantasia.  The  word  goes  lugubriously 
to  my  bowels. 

Suddenly  I  am  aware  of  the  q-b  darting  past  me  like 
a  storm.  Suddenly  I  see  her  pouncing  on  three  gig- 
ling  young  hussies  just  in  front — the  inevitable  black 
velveteen  tarn,  the  inevitable  white  curly  muffler,  the 
inevitable  lower-class  flappers.  "Did  you  want  some- 
thing? Have  you  something  to  say?  Is  there  some- 
thing that  amuses  you?  Oh-h!  You  must  laugh, 
must  you?  Oh— laugh!  Oh-h!  Why?  Why?  You 
ask  why?  Haven't  I  heard  you!  Oh — you  spik  In- 
gleesh!  You  spik  Ingleesh!  Yes — why!  That's 
why!  Yes,  that's  why." 

The  three  gigling  young  hussies  shrink  together  as 
if  they  would  all  hide  behind  one  another,  after  a 

[41  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

vain  uprearing  and  a  demand  why?  Madam  tells 
them  why.  So  they  uncomfortably  squeeze  together 
under  the  unexpected  strokes  of  the  q-b's  sledge- 
hammer Italian  and  more  than  sledge-hammer  retal- 
iation, there  full  in  the  Via  Maqueda.  They  edge 
round  one  another,  each  attempting  to  get  back  of  the 
other,  away  from  the  looming  q-b.  I  perceive  that 
this  rotary  motion  is  equivalent  to  a  standstill,  so  feel 
called  upon  to  say  something  in  the  manly  line. 

"Beastly  Palermo  bad-manners,"  I  say,  and  throw 
a  nonchalant  "Ignoranti"  at  the  end,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
missal. 

Which  does  it.  Off  they  go  down-stream,  still 
huddling  and  shrinking  like  boats  that  are  taking 
sails  in,  and  peeping  to  see  if  we  are  coming.  Yes, 
my  dears,  we  are  coming. 

"Why  do  you  bother?"  say  I  to  the  q-b,  who  is 
towering  with  rage. 

"They've  followed  us  the  whole  length  of  the 
street — with  their  sacco  militario  and  their  parlano 
inglese  and  their  you  sfiik  Ingleesh,  and  their  jeering 
insolence.  But  the  English  are  fools.  They  always 
put  up  with  this  Italian  impudence." 

Which  is  perhaps  true. — But  this  knapsack!  It 
might  be  full  of  bronze-roaring  geese,  it  would  not 
attract  more  attention! 

[  4*  ] 


AS  FAR  AS  PALERMO 

However,  and  however,  it  is  seven  o'clock,  and  the 
shops  are  beginning  to  shut.  No  more  shop-gazing. 
Only  one  lovely  place:  raw  ham,  boiled  ham,  chickens 
in  aspic,  chicken  vol-au- vents,  sweet  curds,  curd-cheese, 
rustic  cheese-cake,  smoked  sausages,  beautiful  fresh 
mortadella,  huge  Mediterranean  red  lobsters,  and 
those  lobsters  without  claws.  "So  good!  So  good!" 
We  stand  and  cry  it  aloud. 

But  this  shop  too  is  shutting.  I  ask  a  man  for  the 
Hotel  Pantechnico.  And  treating  me  in  that  gentle, 
strangely  tender  southern  manner,  he  takes  me  and 
shows  me.  He  makes  me  feel  such  a  poor,  frail,  help- 
less leaf.  A  foreigner,  you  know.  A  bit  of  an  im- 
becile, poor  dear.  Hold  his  hand  and  show  him  the 
way. 

To  sit  in  the  room  of  this  young  American  woman, 
with  its  blue  hangings,  and  talk  and  drink  tea  till  mid- 
night! Ah  these  naive  Americans — they  are  a  good 
deal  older  and  shrewder  than  we,  once  it  nears  the 
point.  And  they  all  seem  to  feel  as  if  the  world  were 
coming  to  an  end.  And  they  are  so  truly  generous 
of  their  hospitality,  in  this  cold  world. 


[  43  ) 


II. 

THE  SEA. 

THE    fat    old   porter   knocks.      Ah 
more  it  is  dark.     Get  up  again  before  dawn. 
A  dark  sky  outside,  cloudy.     The  thrilling 
tinkle  of  innumerable  goat-bells  as  the  first  flock  enters 
the  city,  such  a  rippling  sound.      Well,  it  must  be 
morning,  even  if  one  shivers  at  it.      And  at  least  it 
does  not  rain. 

That  pale,  bluish,  theatrical  light  outside,  of  the 
first  dawn.  And  a  cold  wind.  We  come  on  to  the 
wide,  desolate  quay,  the  curve  of  the  harbour  Panor- 
mus.  That  horrible  dawn-pallor  of  a  cold  sea  out 
there.  And  here,  port  mud,  greasy:  and  fish:  and 
refuse.  The  American  girl  is  with  us,  wrapped  in  her 
sweater.  A  coarse,  cold,  black-slimy  world,  she  seems 
as  if  she  would  melt  away  before  it.  But  these  frail 
creatures,  what  a  lot  they  can  go  through! 

Across  the  great,  wide,  badly  paved,  mud-greasy, 
despairing  road  of  the  quay  side,  and  to  the  sea.  There 

[,44  ] 


D.   H.  Lawrence 

MAP    FOR     SEA     AND     SARDINIA 


THE  SEA 

lies  our  steamer,  over  there  in  the  dawn-dusk  of  the 
basin,  half  visible.  "That  one  who  is  smoking  her 
cigarette,"  says  the  porter.  She  looks  little,  beside 
the  huge  City  of  Trieste  who  is  lying  up  next  her. 

Our  row-boat  is  hemmed  in  by  many  empty  boats, 
huddled  to  the  side  of  the  quay.  She  works  her  way 
out  like  a  sheepdog  working  his  way  out  of  a  flock 
of  sheep,  or  like  a  boat  through  pack-ice.  We  are  on 
the  open  basin.  The  rower  stands  up  and  pushes  the 
oars  from  him.  He  gives  a  long,  melancholy  cry  to 
someone  on  the  quay.  The  water  goes  chock-chock 
against  the  urging  bows.  The  wind  is  chill.  The 
fantastic  peaks  behind  Palermo  show  half -ghostly  in 
a  half -dark  sky.  The  dawn  seems  reluctant  to  come. 
Our  steamer  still  smokes  her  cigarette — meaning  the 
funnel-smoke — across  there.  So,  one  sits  still,  and 
crosses  the  level  space  of  half -dark  water.  Masts  of 
sailing-ships,  and  spars,  cluster  on  the  left,  on  the  un- 
darkening  sky. 

Climb  up,  climb  up,  this  is  our  ship.  Up  we  go, 
up  the  ladder.  "Oh  but!"  says  the  American  girl. 
"Isn't  she  small!  Isn't  she  impossibly  small!  Oh 
my,  will  you  go  in  such  a  little  thing?  Oh  dear! 

[  45  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Thirty  two  hours  in  such  a  little  boat?  Why  no,  I 
wouldn't  care  for  it  at  all." 

A  bunch  of  stewards,  cooks,  waiters,  engineers,  pan- 
cleaners  and  what-not,  mostly  in  black  canvas  jackets. 
Nobody  else  on  the  ship.  A  little  black  bunch  of 
loutish  crew  with  nothing  to  do,  and  we  the  first  pas- 
sengers served  up  to  be  jeered  at.  There  you  are,  in 
the  grey  light. 

"Who  is  going?" 

"We  two — the  signorina  is  not  going." 

"Tickets!" 

These  are  casual  proletarian  manners. 

We  are  taken  into  the  one  long  room  with  a  long 
table  and  many  maple-golden  doors,  alternate  panels 
having  a  wedgewood  blue-and-white  picture  inserted — 
a  would-be  Goddess  of  white  marble  on  a  blue  ground, 
like  a  health-salts  Hygeia  advertisement.  One  of  the 
plain  panels  opens — our  cabin. 

"Oh  dear!  Why  it  isn't  as  big  as  a  china-closet. 
However  will  you  get  in!"  cries  the  American  girl. 

"One  at  a  time,"  say  I. 

"But  it's  the  tiniest  place  I  ever  saw." 

It  really  was  tiny.  One  had  to  get  into  a  bunk  to 
shut  the  door.  That  did  not  matter  to  me,  I  am  no 
Titanic  American.  I  pitched  the  knapsack  on  one 
bunk,  the  kitchenino  on  the  other,  and  we  shut  the 

[  46  ] 


THE  SEA 

door.  The  cabin  disappeared  into  a  maple-wood  panel 
of  the  long,  subterranean  state-room. 

"Why,  is  this  the  only  place  you've  got  to  sit  in?" 
cried  the  American  girl.  "But  how  perfectly  awful! 
No  air,  and  so  dark,  and  smelly.  Why  I  never  saw 
such  a  boat!  Will  you  really  go?  Will  you  really!" 

The  stateroom  was  truly  rather  subterranean  and 
stuffy,  with  nothing  but  a  long  table  and  an  uncanny 
company  of  screw-pin  chairs  seated  thereat,  and  no 
outlet  to  the  air  at  all,  but  it  was  not  so  bad  otherwise, 
to  me  who  have  never  been  out  of  Europe.  Those 
maple-wood  panels  and  ebony  curves — and  those 
Hygeias!  They  went  all  round,  even  round  the 
curve  at  the  dim,  distant  end,  and  back  up  the  near  side. 
Yet  how  beautiful  old,  gold-coloured  maple-wood  is! 
how  very  lovely,  with  the  ebony  curves  of  the  door 
arch!  There  was  a  wonderful  old-fashioned,  Victor- 
ian glow  in  it,  and  a  certain  splendour.  Even  one 
could  bear  the  Hygeias  let  in  under  glass — the  colour 
was  right,  that  wedge-wood  and  white,  in  such  lovely 
gold  lustre.  There  was  a  certain  homely  grandeur 
still  in  the  days  when  this  ship  was  built:  a  richness 
of  choice  material.  And  health-salts  Hygeias,  wedge- 
wood  Greek  goddesses  on  advertisement  placards! 
Yet  they  weren't  advertisements.  That  was  what 

[47  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

really  worried  me.     They  never  had  been.     Perhaps 
Weego's  Health  Salts  stole  her  later. 

We  have  no  coffee — that  goes  without  saying. 
Nothing  doing  so  early.  The  crew  still  stands  in  a 
gang,  exactly  like  a  gang  of  louts  at  a  street-corner. 
And  they've  got  the  street  all  to  themselves — this 
ship.  We  climb  to  the  upper  deck. 

She  is  a  long,  slender,  old  steamer  with  one  little 
funnel.  And  she  seems  so  deserted,  now  that  one 
can't  see  the  street-corner  gang  of  the  casual  crew. 
They  are  just  below.  Our  ship  is  deserted. 

The  dawn  is  wanly  blueing.  The  sky  is  a  curdle 
of  cloud,  there  is  a  bit  of  pale  gold  eastwards,  beyond 
Monte  Pellegrino.  The  wind  blows  across  the  har- 
bour. The  hills  behind  Palermo  prick  up  their  ears 
on  the  sky-line.  The  city  lies  unseen,  near  us  and 
level.  There — a  big  ship  is  coming  in:  the  Naples 
boat. 

And  the  little  boats  keep  putting  off  from  the  near 
quay,  and  coming  to  us.  We  watch.  A  stout  officer, 
cavalry,  in  grayey-green,  with  a  big  dark-blue  cloak 
lined  with  scarlet.  The  scarlet  lining  keeps  flashing. 
He  has  a  little  beard,  and  his  uniform  is  not  quite 
clean.  He  has  big  wooden  chests,  tied  with  rope,  for 

[  48  ] 


THE  SEA 

luggage.  Poor  and  of  no  class.  Yet  that  scarlet,  splen- 
did lining,  and  the  spurs.  It  seems  a  pity  they  must 
go  second-class.  Yet  so  it  is,  he  goes  forward  when 
the  dock  porter  has  hoisted  those  wooden  boxes.  No 
fellow-passenger  yet. 

Boats  still  keep  coming.  Ha-ha!  Here  is  the 
commissariat!  Various  sides  of  kid,  ready  for  roast- 
ing: various  chickens:  fennel  like  celery:  wine  in  a 
bottiglione:  new  bread:  packages!  Hand  them  up, 
hand  them  up.  "Good  food!"  cries  the  q-b  in  antici- 
pation. 

It  must  be  getting  near  time  to  go.  Two  more 
passengers — young  thick  men  in  black  broadcloth 
standing  up  in  the  stern  of  a  little  boat,  their  hands 
in  their  pockets,  looking  a  little  cold  about  the  chin. 
Not  quite  Italian,  too  sturdy  and  manly.  Sardinians 
from  Cagliari,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

We  go  down  from  the  chill  upper-deck.  It  is  grow- 
ing full  day.  Bits  of  pale  gold  are  flying  among 
delicate  but  cold  flakes  of  cloud  from  the  east,  over 
Monte  Pellegrino,  bits  of  very  new  turquoise  sky  come 
out.  Palermo  on  the  left  crouches  upon  her  all-har- 
bour— a  little  desolate,  disorderly,  end-of-the-world, 
end-of-the-sea,  along  her  quay  front.  Even  from 
here  we  can  see  the  yellow  carts  rattling  slowly,  the 

[49  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

mules  nodding  their  high  weird  plumes  of  scarlet 
along  the  broad  weary  harbour-side.  Oh  painted  carts 
of  Sicily,  with  all  history  on  your  panels! 

Arrives  an  individual  at  our  side.  "The  captain 
fears  it  will  not  be  possible  to  start.  There  is  much 
wind  outside.  Much  wind!" 

How  they  love  to  come  up  with  alarming,  disquiet- 
ing, or  annoying  news!  The  joy  it  gives  them.  What 
satisfaction  on  all  the  faces:  of  course  all  the  other 
loafers  are  watching  us,  the  street-corner  loungers  of 
this  deck.  But  we  have  been  many  times  bitten. 

"Ah  ma!"  say  I,  looking  at  the  sky,  '"not  so  much 
wind  as  all  that." 

An  air  of  quiet,  shrugging  indifference  is  most 
effectual:  as  if  you  knew  all  about  it,  a  good  deal 
more  than  they  knew. 

"Ah  si!  Molto  vento!  Molto  vento!  Outside! 
Outside!" 

With  a  long  face  and  a  dramatic  gesture  he  points 
out  of  the  harbour,  to  the  grey  sea.  I  too  look  out  of 
the  harbour  at  the  pale  line  of  sea  beyond  the  mole. 
But  I  do  not  trouble  to  answer,  and  my  eye  is  calm. 
So  he  goes  away,  only  half  triumphant. 

"Things  seem  to  get  worse  and  worse!"  cries  the 
[  50  ] 


THE  SEA 

American  friend.  "What  will  you  do  on  such  a  boat 
if  you  have  an  awful  time  out  in  the  Mediterranean 
here?  Oh  no — will  you  risk  it,  really?  Won't  you 
go  from  Civita  Vecchia?" 

"How  awful  it  will  be!"  cries  the  q-b,  looking 
round  the  grey  harbour,  the  many  masts  clustering  in 
the  grey  sky  on  the  right:  the  big  Naples  boat  turning 
her  posterior  to  the  quay-side  a  little  way  off,  and 
cautiously  budging  backwards:  the  almost  entirely  shut- 
in  harbour:  the  bits  of  blue  and  flying  white  cloud 
overhead:  the  little  boats  like  beetles  scuttling  hither 
and  thither  across  the  basin:  the  thick  crowd  on  the  quay 
come  to  meet  the  Naples  boat. 

Time!      Time!      The  American  friend  nvst  go. 
She  bids  us  goodbye,  more  than  sympathetically. 
"I  shall  be  awfully  interested  to  hear  how  you  get 


on." 


So  down  the  side  she  goes.  The  boatman  wants 
twenty  francs — wants  more — but  doesn't  get  it.  He 
gets  ten,  which  is  five  too  much.  And  so,  sitting 
rather  small  and  pinched  and  cold-looking,  huddled 
in  her  sweater,  she  bibbles  over  the  ripply  water  to 
the  distant  stone  steps.  We  wave  farewell.  But 
other  traffic  comes  between  us.  And  the  q-b,  feeling 
nervous,  is  rather  cross  because  the  American  friend's 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ideas  of  luxury  have  put  us  in  such  a  poor  light.     We 
feel  like  the  poorest  of  poor  sea-faring  relations. 

Our  ship  is  hooting  for  all  she's  worth.  An  im- 
portant last-minuter  comes  surging  up.  The  rope 
hawsers  are  being  wound  clankily  in.  Seagulls — they 
are  never  very  many  in  the  Mediterranean — sea-gulls 
whirl  like  a  few  flakes  of  snow  in  the  upper  chill  air. 
Clouds  spin.  And  without  knowing  it  we  are  evapor- 
ating away  from  the  shore,  from  our  mooring,  between 
the  great  City  of  Trieste  and  another  big  black  steamer 
that  lies  like  a  wall.  We  breathe  towards  this  second 
black  wall  of  steamer:  distinctly.  And  of  course  an 
individual  in  an  official  cap  is  standing  on  the  bottom 
of  our  departure  ladder  just  above  the  water,  yelling 
Barca!  Barca! — shouting  for  a  boat.  And  an  old 
man  on  the  sea  stands  up  to  his  oars  and  comes  pushing 
his  clumsy  boat  with  gathering  speed  between  us  and 
the  other  black  wall.  There  he  stands  away  below 
there,  small,  firing  his  clumsy  boat  along,  remote  as 
if  in  a  picture  on  the  dark  green  water.  And  our 
black  side  insidiously  and  evilly  aspires  to  the  other 
huge  black  wall.  He  rows  in  the  canyon  between, 
and  is  nearly  here. 

When  lo,  the  individual  on  the  bottom  step  turns 
in  the  other  direction.  Another  boat  from  the  open 

[  52  ] 


THE  SEA 

basin  is  sweeping  up:  it  is  a  race:  she  is  near,  she  is 
nearer,  she  is  up.  With  a  curvet  the  boat  from  the 
open  rounds  up  at  the  ladder.  The  boat  between  the 
gulf  backs  its  oars.  The  official  individual  shouts 
and  waves,  the  old  man  backing  his  oars  in  the  gulf 
below  yells  expostulation,  the  boat  from  the  open 
carries  off  its  prey,  our  ship  begins  slowly  to  puddle- 
puddle-puddle,  working  her  screw,  the  man  in  the 
gulf  of  green  water  rows  for  his  life — we  are  floating 
into  the  open  basin. 

Slowly,  slowly  we  turn  round:  and  as  the  ship 
turns,  our  hearts  turn.  Palermo  fades  from  our  con- 
sciousness: the  Naples  boat,  the  disembarking  crowds, 
the  rattling  carriages  to  the  land — the  great  City  of 
Trieste — all  fades  from  our  heart.  We  see  only  the 
open  gap  of  the  harbour  entrance,  and  the  level,  pale- 
grey  void  of  the  sea  beyond.  There  are  wisps  of 
gleamy  light — out  there. 

And  out  there  our  heart  watches — though  Palermo 
is  near  us,  just  behind.  We  look  round,  and  see  it 
all  behind  us— but  already  it  is  gone,  gone  from  our 
heart.  The  fresh  wind,  the  gleamy  wisps  of  light, 
the  running,  open  sea  beyond  the  harbour  bars. 

And  so  we  steam  out.  And  almost  at  once  the  ship 
begins  to  take  a  long,  slow,  dizzy  dip,  and  a  fainting 

[  53  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

swoon  upwards,  and  a  long,  slow,  dizzy  dip,  slipping 
away  from  beneath  one.  The  q-b  turns  pale.  Up 
comes  the  deck  in  that  fainting  swoon  backwards — 
then  down  it  fades  in  that  indescribable  slither  for- 
wards. It  is  all  quite  gentle — quite,  quite  gentle. 
But  oh,  so  long,  and  so  slow,  and  so  dizzy. 

"Rather  pleasant!"  say  I  to  the  q-b. 

"Yes.  Rather  lovely  really  "  she  answers  wistfully. 
To  tell  the  truth  there  is  something  in  the  long,  slow 
lift  of  the  ship,  and  her  long,  slow  slide  forwards 
which  makes  my  heart  beat  with  joy.  It  is  the  motion 
of  freedom.  To  feel  her  come  up — then  slide  slowly 
forward,  with  a  sound  of  the  smashing  of  waters,  is 
like  the  magic  gallop  of  the  sky,  the  magic  gallop  of 
elemental  space.  That  long,  slow,  waveringly  rhyth- 
mic rise  and  fall  of  the  ship,  with  waters  snorting  as  it 
were  from  her  nostrils,  oh  God  what  a  joy  it  is  to  the 
wild  innermost  soul.  One  is  free  at  last — and  lilting 
in  a  slow  flight  of  the  elements,  winging  outwards. 
Oh  God,  to  be  free  of  all  the  hemmed-in  life — the 
horror  of  human  tension,  the  absolute  insanity  of 
machine  persistence.  The  agony  which  a  train  is  to 
me,  really.  And  the  long-drawn-out  agony  of  a  life 
among  tense,  resistant  people  on  land.  And  then  to 
feel  the  long,  slow  lift  and  drop  of  this  almost  empty 
ship,  as  she  took  the  waters.  Ah  God,  liberty,  liberty, 

[  54  ] 


THE  SEA 

elemental  liberty.  I  wished  in  my  soul  the  voyage 
might  last  forever,  that  the  sea  had  no  end,  that  one 
might  float  in  this  wavering,  tremulous,  yet  long  and 
surging  pulsation  while  ever  time  lasted:  space  never 
exhausted,  and  no  turning  back,  no  looking  back,  even. 

The  ship  was  almost  empty — save  of  course  for  the 
street-corner  louts  who  hung  about  just  below,  on  the 
deck  itself.  We  stood  alone  on  the  weather-faded 
little  promenade  deck,  which  has  old  oak  seats  with  old, 
carved  little  lions  at  the  ends,  for  arm-rests — and  a 
little  cabin  mysteriously  shut,  which  much  peeping 
determined  as  the  wireless  office  and  the  operator's 
little  curtained  bed-niche. 

Cold,  fresh  wind,  a  black-blue,  translucent,  rolling 
sea  on  which  the  wake  rose  in  snapping  foam,  and 
Sicily  on  the  left:  Monte  Pellegrino,  a  huge,  inordin- 
ate mass  of  pinkish  rock,  hardly  crisped  with  the  faint- 
est vegetation,  looming  up  to  heaven  from  the  sea. 
Strangely  large  in  mass  and  bulk  Monte  Pellegrino 
looks:  and  bare,  like  a  Sahara  in  heaven:  and  old- 
looking.  These  coasts  of  Sicily  are  very  imposing, 
terrific,  fortifying  the  interior.  And  again  one  gets 
the  feeling  that  age  has  worn  them  bare:  as  if  old, 
old  civilisations  had  worn  away  and  exhausted  the  soil, 

[  55  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

leaving  a  terrifying  blankness  of  rock,  as  at  Syracuse 
in  plateaus,  and  here  in  a  great  mass. 

There  seems  hardly  any  one  on  board  but  ourselves: 
we  alone  on  the  little  promenade  deck.  Strangely 
lonely,  floating  on  a  bare  old  ship  past  the  great  bare 
shores,  on  a  rolling  sea,  stooping  and  rising  in  the  wind. 
The  wood  of  the  fittings  is  all  bare  and  weather-sil- 
vered, the  cabin,  the  seats,  even  the  little  lions  of  the 
seats.  The  paint  wore  away  long  ago:  and  this  timber 
will  never  see  paint  any  more.  Strange  to  put  one's 
hand  on  the  old  oaken  wood,  so  sea-fibred.  Good  old 
delicate-threaded  oak:  I  swear  it  grew  in  England. 
And  everything  so  carefully  done,  so  solidly  and  ever- 
lastingly. I  look  at  the  lions,  with  the  perfect-fitting 
oaken  pins  through  their  paws  clinching  them  down, 
and  their  little  mouths  open.  They  are  as  solid  as 
they  were  in  Victorian  days,  as  immovable.  They  will 
never  wear  away.  What  a  joy  in  the  careful, 
thorough,  manly,  everlasting  work  put  into  a  ship:  at 
least  into  this  sixty-year-old  vessel.  Every  bit  of  this 
old  oak  wood  so  sound,  so  beautiful:  and  the  whole 
welded  together  with  joints  and  wooden  pins  far  more 
beautifully  and  livingly  than  iron  welds.  Rustless, 
life-born,  living-tissued  old  wood:  rustless  as  flesh  is 
rustless,  and  happy-seeming  as  iron  never  can  be.  She 

[  56] 


THE  SEA 

rides  so  well,  she  takes  the  sea  so  beautifully,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

Various  members  of  the  crew  wander  past  to  look 
at  us.  This  little  promenade  deck  is  over  the  first- 
class  quarters,  full  in  the  stern.  So  we  see  first  one 
head  then  another  come  up  the  ladder — mostly  bare 
heads:  and  one  figure  after  another  slouches  past, 
smoking  a  cigarette.  All  crew.  At  last  the  q-b  stops 
one  of  them — it  is  what  they  are  all  waiting  for,  an 
opportunity  to  talk — and  asks  if  the  weird  object  on 
the  top  of  Pellegrino  is  a  ruin.  Could  there  be  a 
more  touristy  question!  No,  it  is  the  semaphore 
station.  Slap  in  the  eye  for  the  q-b!  She  doesn't 
mind,  however,  and  the  member  of  the  crew  proceeds 
to  converse.  He  is  a  weedy,  hollow-cheeked  town- 
product:  a  Palermitan.  He  wears  faded  blue  over- 
alls and  informs  us  he  is  the  ship's  carpenter:  happily 
unemployed  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  apparently,  and 
taking  it  as  rather  less  than  his  dues.  The  ship  once 
did  the  Naples-Palermo  course — a  very  important 
course — in  the  old  days  of  the  General  Navigation 
Company.  The  General  Navigation  Company  sold 
her  for  eighty  thousand  liras  years  ago,  and  now  she 
was  worth  two  million.  We  pretend  to  believe:  but 
I  make  a  poor  show.  I  am  thoroughly  sick  to  death 

[  57  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

of  the  sound  of  liras.  No  man  can  overhear  ten 
words  of  Italian  today  without  two  thousand  or  two 
million  or  ten  or  twenty  or  two  liras  flying  like  ven- 
omous mosquitoes  round  his  ears.  Liras — liras — 
liras — nothing  else.  Romantic,  poetic,  cypress-and- 
orange-tree  Italy  is  gone.  Remains  an  Italy  smoth- 
ered in  the  filthy  smother  of  innumerable  Lira  notes: 
ragged,  unsavoury  paper  money  so  thick  upon  the  air 
that  one  breathes  it  like  some  greasy  fog.  Behind  this 
greasy  fog  some  people  may  still  see  the  Italian  sun. 
I  find  it  hard  work.  Through  this  murk  of  Liras  you 
peer  at  Michael  Angelo  and  at  Botticelli  and  the  rest, 
and  see  them  all  as  through  a  glass,  darkly.  For 
heavy  around  you  is  Italy's  after-the-war  atmosphere, 
darkly  pressing  you,  squeezing  you,  milling  you  into 
dirty  paper  notes.  King  Harry  was  lucky  that  they 
only  wanted  to  coin  him  into  gold.  Italy  wants  to 
mill  you  into  filthy  paper  Liras. 

Another  head — and  a  black  alpaca  jacket  and  a  ser- 
viette this  time — to  tell  us  coffee  is  ready.  Not  before 
it  is  time,  too.  We  go  down  into  the  subterranean 
state-room  and  sit  on  the  screw-pin  chairs,  while  the 
ship  does  the  slide-and-slope  trot  under  us,  and  we 
drink  a  couple  of  cups  of  coffee-and-milk,  and  eat  a 
piece  of  bread  and  butter.  At  least  one  of  the  innum- 

[  58  ] 


THE  SEA 

erable  members  of  the  crew  gives  me  one  cup,  then 
casts  me  off.  It  is  most  obviously  his  intention  that  I 
shall  get  no  more:  because  of  course  the  innumerable 
members  of  the  crew  could  all  just  do  with  another 
coffee  and  milk.  However,  though  the  ship  heaves 
and  the  alpaca  coats  cluster  menacingly  in  the  doorway, 
I  balance  my  way  to  the  tin  buffet  and  seize  the  coffee 
pot  and  the  milk  pot,  and  am  quite  successful  in  ad- 
ministering to  the  q-b  and  myself.  Having  restored 
the  said  vessels  to  their  tin  altar,  I  resume  my  spin- 
chair  at  the  long  and  desert  board.  The  q-b  and  I  are 
alone — save  that  in  the  distance  a  very  fat  back  with 
gold-braid  collar  sits  sideways  and  a  fat  hand  disposes 
of  various  papers — he  is  part  of  the  one-and-only  table, 
of  course.  The  tall  lean  alpaca  jacket,  with  a  face  of 
yellow  stone  and  a  big  black  moustache  moves  from 
the  outer  doorway,  glowers  at  our  filled  cups,  and  goes 
to  the  tin  altar  and  touches  the  handles  of  the  two 
vessels:  just  touches  them  to  an  arrangement:  as  one 
who  should  say:  These  are  mine.  What  dirty  foreign- 
er dares  help  himself! 

As  quickly  as  possible  we  stagger  up  from  the  long 
dungeon  where  the  alpaca  jackets  are  swooping  like 
blue-bottles  upon  the  coffee  pots,  into  the  air.  There 
the  carpenter  is  waiting  for  us,  like  a  spider. 

[  59  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Isn't  the  sea  a  little  quieter?"  says  the  q-b  wist- 
fully. She  is  growing  paler. 

"No,  Signora — how  should  it  be?"  says  the  gaunt- 
faced  carpenter.  "The  wind  is  waiting  for  us  behind 
Cape  Gallo.  You  see  that  cape?"  he  points  to  a  tall 
black  cliff-front  in  the  sea  ahead.  "When  we  get  to 
that  cape  we  get  the  wind  and  the  sea.  Here — "  he 
makes  a  gesture — "it  is  moderate." 

"Ugh!"  says  the  q-b,  turning  paler.  "I'm  going 
to  lie  down." 

She  disappears.  The  carpenter,  finding  me  stony 
ground,  goes  forward,  and  I  see  him  melting  into  the 
crowd  of  the  innumerable  crew,  that  hovers  on  the 
lower-deck  passage  by  the  kitchen  and  the  engines. 

The  clouds  are  flying  fast  overhead:  and  sharp  and 
isolated  come  drops  of  rain,  so  that  one  thinks  it  must 
be  spray.  But  no,  it  is  a  handful  of  rain.  The  ship 
swishes  and  sinks  forward,  gives  a  hollow  thudding 
and  rears  slowly  backward,  along  this  pinkish  lofty 
coast  of  Sicily  that  is  just  retreating  into  a  bay.  From 
the  open  sea  comes  the  rain,  come  the  long  waves. 

No  shelter.  One  must  go  down.  The  q-b  lies 
quietly  in  her  bunk.  The  state-room  is  stale  like  a 
passage  on  the  underground  railway.  No  shelter, 

[  60  ] 


THE  SEA 

save  near  the  kitchen  and  the  engines,  where  there  is 
a  bit  of  warmth.  The  cook  is  busy  cleaning  fish,  mak- 
ing the  whiting  bite  their  tails  venomously  at  a  little 
board  just  outside  his  kitchen-hole.  A  slow  stream 
of  kitchen-filth  swilkers  back  and  forth  along  the  ship's 
side.  A  gang  of  the  crew  leans  near  me — a  larger 
gang  further  down.  Heaven  knows  what  they  can  all 
be — but  they  never  do  anything  but  stand  in  gangs 
and  talk  and  eat  and  smoke  cigarettes.  They  are 
mostly  young — mostly  Palermitan — with  a  couple  of 
unmistakable  Neapolitans,  having  the  peculiar  Nea- 
politan hang-dog  good  looks,  the  chiselled  cheek,  the 
little  black  moustache,  the  large  eyes.  But  they 
chew  with  their  cheeks  bulged  out,  and  laugh  with 
their  fine,  semi-sarcastic  noses.  The  whole  gang  looks 
continually  sideways.  Nobody  ever  commands  them — 
there  seems  to  be  absolutely  no  control.  Only  the 
fat  engineer  in  grey  linen  looks  as  clean  and  as  com- 
petent as  his  own  machinery.  Queer  how  machine- 
control  puts  the  pride  and  self-respect  into  a  man. 

The  rain  over,  I  go  and  squat  against  the  canvas 
that  is  spread  over  the  arched  sky-lights  on  the  small 
promenade  deck,  sitting  on  the  seat  that  is  fixed  to 
the  sky-light  sides.  The  wind  is  cold:  there  are 
snatches  of  sun  and  spits  of  rain.  The  big  cape  has 

[  61  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

come  and  is  being  left  behind:  we  are  heading  for  a 
far-off  cape  like  a  cloud  in  the  grey  air.  A  dimness 
comes  over  one's  mind:  a  sort  of  stupefaction  owing 
to  the  wind  and  the  relentless  slither-and-rearing  of 
the  ship.  Not  a  sickness,  but  a  sort  of  dim  faintness. 
So  much  motion,  such  moving,  powerful  air.  And 
withal  a  constant  triumph  in  the  long,  slow  sea-gallop 
of  the  ship. 

A  great  loud  bell:  midday  and  the  crew  going  to 
eat,  rushing  to  eat.  After  some  time  we  are  sum- 
moned. "The  Signora  isn't  eating?"  asks  the  waiter 
eagerly:  hoping  she  is  not.  "Yes,  she  is  eating,"  say 
I.  I  fetch  the  q-b  from  her  berth.  Rather  wanly 
she  comes  and  gets  into  her  spin  chair.  Bash  comes 
a  huge  plate  of  thick,  oily  cabbage  soup,  very  full, 
swilkering  over  the  sides.  We  do  what  we  can  with 
it.  So  does  the  third  passenger:  a  young  woman  who 
never  wears  a  hat,  thereby  admitting  herself  simply 
as  one  of  "the  people,"  but  who  has  an  expensive  com- 
plicated dress,  nigger-coloured  thin  silk  stockings,  and 
suede  high-heeled  shoes.  She  is  handsome,  sturdy, 
with  large  dark  eyes  and  a  robust,  frank  manner: 
far  too  robustly  downright  for  Italy.  She  is  from 
Cagliari — and  can't  do  much  with  the  cabbage  soup: 
and  tells  the  waiter  so,  in  her  deep,  hail-fellow-well- 

[  62  ] 


THE  SEA 

met  voice.  In  the  doorway  hovers  a  little  cloud  of 
alpaca  jackets  grinning  faintly  with  malignant  antici- 
pation of  food,  hoping,  like  blow-flies,  we  shall  be  too 
ill  to  eat.  Away  goes  the  soup  and  appears  a  massive 
yellow  omelette,  like  some  log  of  bilious  wood.  It  is 
hard,  and  heavy,  and  cooked  in  the  usual  rank-tasting 
olive  oil.  The  young  woman  doesn't  have  much 
truck  with  it:  neither  do  we.  To  the  triumph  of  the 
blow-flies,  who  see  the  yellow  monster  borne  to  their 
altar.  After  which  a  long  long  slab  of  the  inevitable 
meat  cut  into  innumerable  slices,  tasting  of  dead  noth- 
ingness and  having  a  thick  sauce  of  brown  neutrality: 
sufficient  for  twelve  people  at  least.  This,  with  masses 
of  strong-tasting  greenish  cauliflower  liberally  weight- 
ed with  oil,  on  a  ship  that  was  already  heaving  its  heart 
out,  made  up  the  dinner.  Accumulating  malevolent 
triumph  among  the  blow-flies  in  the  passage.  So  on 
to  a  dessert  of  oranges,  pears  with  wooden  hearts  and 
thick  yellowish  wash-leather  flesh,  and  apples.  Then 
coffee. 

And  we  had  sat  through  it,  which  is  something. 
The  alpaca  blue-bottles  buzzed  over  the  masses  of 
food  that  went  back  on  the  dishes  to  the  tin  altar. 
Surely  it  had  been  made  deliberately  so  that  we  should 
not  eat  it!  The  Cagliarese  young  woman  talked  to 
us.  Yes,  she  broke  into  that  awful  language  which 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

the  Italians — the  quite  ordinary  ones — call  French, 
and  which  they  insist  on  speaking  for  their  own  glori- 
fication: yea,  when  they  get  to  heaven's  gate  they  will 
ask  St.  Peter  for: 

"OOn  bigliay  pour  ung — trozzieme  classe." 
Fortunately  or  unfortunately  her  inquisitiveness  got 
the  better  of  her,  and  she  fell  into  her  native  Italian. 
What  were  we,  where  did  we  come  from,  where  were 
we  going,  why  were  we  going,  had  we  any  children, 
did  we  want  any,  etc.  After  every  answer  she  nodded 
her  head  and  said  Ahu!  and  watched  us  with  energetic 
dark  eyes.  Then  she  ruminated  over  our  nationalities 
and  said,  to  the  unseeing  witnesses:  Una  bella  coppia, 
a  fine  couple.  As  at  the  moment  we  felt  neither  beau- 
tiful nor  coupled,  we  only  looked  greener.  The  grim 
man-at-arms  coming  up  to  ask  us  again  if  we  weren't 
going  to  have  a  little  wine,  she  lapsed  into  her  ten- 
pounder  French,  which  was  most  difficult  to  follow. 
And  she  said  that  on  a  sea-voyage  one  must  eat,  one 
must  eat,  if  only  a  little.  But — and  she  lapsed  into 
Italian — one  must  by  no  means  drink  wine — no — no! 
One  didn't  want  to,  said  I  sadly.  Whereupon  the 
grim  man-at-arms,  whom,  of  course,  we  had  cheated 
out  of  the  bottle  we  refused  to  have  opened  for  us, 
said  with  a  lost  sarcasm  that  wine  made  a  man  of  a 
man,  etc.,  etc.  I  was  too  weary  of  that  underground, 


THE  SEA 

however.  All  I  knew  was  that  he  wanted  wine,  wine, 
wine,  and  we  hadn't  ordered  any.  He  didn't  care  for 
food. 

The  Cagliarese  told  us  she  came  now  from  Naples, 
and  her  husband  was  following  in  a  few  days.  He 
was  doing  business  in  Naples.  I  nearly  asked  if  he  was 
a  little  dog-fish — this  being  the  Italian  for  profiteer, 
but  refrained  in  time.  So  the  two  ladies  retired  to  lie 
down,  I  went  and  sat  under  my  tarpaulin. 

I  felt  very  dim,  and  only  a  bit  of  myself.  And  I 
dozed  blankly.  The  afternoon  grew  more  sunny. 
The  ship  turned  southwards,  and  with  the  wind  and 
waves  behind,  it  became  much  warmer,  much  smoother. 
The  sun  had  the  lovely  strong  winey  warmth,  golden 
over  the  dark-blue  sea.  The  old  oak-wood  looked 
almost  white,  the  afternoon  was  sweet  upon  the  sea. 
And  in  the  sunshine  and  the  swishing  of  the  sea,  the 
speedier  running  of  the  empty  ship,  I  slept  a  warm, 
sweet  hour  away,  and  awoke  new.  To  see  ahead  pale, 
uplooming  islands  upon  the  right:  the  windy  Egades: 
and  on  the  right  a  mountain  or  high  conical  hill,  with 
buildings  on  the  summit:  and  in  front  against  the  sea, 
still  rather  far  away,  buildings  rising  upon  a  quay, 
within  a  harbor:  and  a  mole,  and  a  castle  forward  to 

§ea?  all  §mali  and  far  away,  like  a  view,    The  buildings 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

were  square  and  fine.  There  was  something  im- 
pressive— magical  under  the  far  sunshine  and  the  keen 
wind,  the  square  and  well-proportioned  buildings  wait- 
ing far  off,  waiting  like  a  lost  city  in  a  story,  a  Rip  van 
Winkle  city.  I  knew  it  was  Trapani,  the  western  port 
of  Sicily,  under  the  western  sun. 

And  the  hill  near  us  was  Mount  Eryx.  I  had  never 
seen  it  before.  So  I  had  imagined  a  mountain  in  the 
sky.  But  it  was  only  a  hill,  with  undistinguishable 
cluster  of  a  village  on  the  summit,  where  even  now  cold 
wisps  of  vapour  caught.  They  say  it  is  2,500  feet  high. 
Still  it  looks  only  a  hill. 

But  why  in  the  name  of  heaven  should  my  heart 
stand  still  as  I  watch  that  hill  which  rises  above  the  sea? 
It  is  the  Etna  of  the  west:  but  only  a  town-crowned  hill. 
To  men  it  must  have  had  a  magic  almost  greater  than 
Etna's.  Watching  Africa!  Africa,  showing  her  coast 
on  clear  days.  Africa  the  dreaded.  And  the  great 
watch-temple  of  the  summit,  world-sacred,  world- 
mystic  in  the  world  that  was.  Venus  of  the  aborigines, 
older  than  Greek  Aphrodite.  Venus  of  the  aborigines, 
from  her  watch-temple  looking  at  Africa,  beyond  the 
Egatian  isles.  The  world-mystery,  the  smiling  Astarte. 
This,  one  of  the  world  centres,  older  than  old!  and 
the  woman-goddess  watching  Africa!  Eryciw  ridens* 

[  66] 


THE  SEA 

Laughing,  the  woman-goddess,  at  this  centre  of  an 
ancient,  quite-lost  world. 

I  confess  my  heart  stood  still.  But  is  mere  historical 
fact  so  strong,  that  what  one  learns  in  bits  from  books 
can  move  one  so?  Or  does  the  very  word  call  an  echo 
out  of  the  dark  blood?  It  seems  so  to  me.  It  seems 
to  me  from  the  darkest  recesses  of  my  blood  comes  a 
terrible  echo  at  the  name  of  Mount  Eryx:  something 
quite  unaccountable.  The  name  of  Athens  hardly 
moves  me.  At  Eryx — my  darkness  quivers.  Eryx, 
looking  west  into  Africa's  sunset.  Erydna  ridens. 

There  is  a  tick-tocking  in  the  little  cabin  against 
which  I  lean.  The  wireless  operator  is  busy  communi- 
cating with  Trapani,  no  doubt.  He  is  a  fat  young  man 
with  fairish  curly  hair  and  an  important  bearing.  Give 
a  man  control  of  some  machine,  and  at  once  his  air  of 
importance  and  more-than-human  dignity  develops. 
One  of  the  unaccountable  members  of  the  crew  lounges 
in  the  little  doorway,  like  a  chicken  on  one  foot,  hav- 
ing nothing  to  do.  The  girl  from  Cagliari  comes  up 
with  two  young  men — also  Sardinians  by  their  thick-set, 
independent  look,  and  the  touch  of  pride  in  their  dark 
eyes.  She  has  no  wraps  at  all:  just  her  elegant  fine- 
cloth  dress,  her  bare  head  from  which  the  wisps  of 
hair  blow  across  her  brow,  and  the  transparent  "nigger" 
silk  stockings.  Yet  she  does  not  seem  cold.  She  talks 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

with  great  animation,  sitting  between  the  two  young 
men.  And  she  holds  the  hand  of  the  one  in  the  over- 
coat affectionately.  She  is  always  holding  the  hand  of 
one  or  other  of  the  two  young  men:  and  wiping  wisps 
of  wind-blown  hair  from  her  brow:  and  talking  in  her 
strong,  nonchalant  voice,  rapidly,  ceaselessly,  with 
massive  energy.  Heaven  knows  if  the  two  young 
men — they  are  third-class  passengers — were  previous 
acquaintances.  But  they  hold  her  hand  like  brothers — 
quite  simply  and  nicely,  not  at  all  sticky  and  libidinous, 
It  all  has  an  air  of  "Why  not?" 

She  shouts  at  me  as  I  pass,  in  her  powerful,  extraor- 
dinary French: 

"Madame  votre  femme,  elle  est  au  lit?" 

I  say  she  is  lying  down. 

"Ah ! "  she  nods.     "Elle  a  le  mal  de  mer ? " 

No,  she  is  not  sea-sick,  just  lying  down. 

The  two  young  men,  between  whom  she  is  sitting 
as  between  two  pillows,  watch  with  the  curious  Sar- 
dinian dark  eyes  that  seem  alert  and  show  the  white 
all  round.  They  are  pleasant — a  bit  like  seals.  And 
they  have  a  numb  look  for  the  moment,  impressed  by 
this  strange  language.  She  proceeds  energetically  to 
translate  into  Sardinian,  as  I  pass  on. 

We  do  not  seem  to  be  going  to  Trapani.  There  lies 
the  town  on  the  left,  under  the  hill,  the  square  build- 

[  68  ] 


THE  SEA 

ings  that  suggest  to  me  the  factories  of  the  East  India 
Company  shining  in  the  sun  along  the  curious,  closed-in 
harbour,  beyond  the  running,  dark  blue  sea.  We  seem 
to  be  making  for  the  island  bulk  of  Levanzo.  Perhaps 
we  shall  steer  away  to  Sardinia  without  putting  in  to 
Trapani. 

On  and  on  we  run — and  always  as  if  we  were  going 
to  steer  between  the  pale  blue,  heaped-up  islands,  leav- 
ing Trapani  behind  us  on  our  left.  The  town  has  been 
in  sight  for  an  hour  or  more:  and  still  we  run  out  to  sea 
towards  Levanzo.  And  the  wireless-operator  busily 
tick-tocks  and  throbs  in  his  little  cabin  on  this  upper 
deck.  Peeping  in,  one  sees  his  bed  and  chair  behind  a 
curtain,  screened  off  from  his  little  office.  And  all  so 
tidy  and  pleased-looking. 

From  the  islands  one  of  the  Mediterranean  sailing 
ships  is  beating  her  way,  across  our  track,  to  Trapani. 
I  don't  know  the  name  of  ships  but  the  carpenter  says 
she  is  a  schooner:  he  says  it  with  that  Italian  misgiving 
which  doesn't  really  know  but  which  can't  bear  not  to 
know.  Anyhow  on  she  comes,  with  her  tall  ladder  of 
square  sails  white  in  the  afternoon  light,  and  her  lovely 
prow,  curved  in  with  a  perfect  hollow,  running  like  a 
wild  animal  on  a  scent  across  the  waters.  There — the 
scent  leads  her  north  again.  She  changes  her  tack  from 
the  harbour  mouth,  and  goes  coursing  away,  passing 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

behind  us.  Lovely  she  is,  nimble  and  quick  and  pal- 
pitating, with  all  her  sails  white  and  bright  and  eager. 

We  are  changing  our  course.  We  have  all  the  time 
been  heading  for  the  south  of  Levanzo.  Now  I  see 
the  island  slowly  edging  back,  as  if  clearing  out  of  the 
way  for  us,  like  a  man  in  the  street.  The  island  edges 
and  turns  aside:  and  walks  away.  And  clearly  we  are 
making  for  the  harbour  mouth.  We  have  all  this  time 
been  running,  out  at  sea,  round  the  back  of  the  harbour. 
Now  I  see  the  fortress-castle,  an  old  thing,  out  forward 
to  sea:  and  a  little  light-house  and  the  way  in.  And 
beyond,  the  town-front  with  great  palm  trees  and  other 
curious  dark  trees,  and  behind  these  the  large  square 
buildings  of  the  south  rising  imposingly,  as  if  severe, 
big  palaces  upon  the  promenade.  It  all  has  a  stately, 
southern,  imposing  appearance,  withal  remote  from  our 
modern  centuries:  standing  back  from  the  tides  of  our 
industrial  life. 

I  remember  the  Crusaders,  how  they  called  here  so 
often  on  their  way  to  the  East.  And  Trapani  seems 
waiting  for  them  still,  with  its  palm  trees  and  its  silence, 
full  in  the  afternoon  sun.  It  has  not  much  to  do  but 
wait,  apparently. 

The  q-b  emerges  into  the  sun,  crying  out  how  lovely! 
And  the  sea  is  quieter:  we  are  already  in  the  lea  of  the 
harbour-curve.  From  the  north  the  many-sailed  ship 

[  70  ] 


THE  SEA 

from  the  islands  is  running  down  towards  us,  with  the 
wind.  And  away  on  the  south,  on  the  sea-level,  numer- 
ous short  windmills  are  turning  their  sails  briskly, 
windmill  after  windmill,  rather  stumpy,  spinning  gaily 
in  the  blue,  silent  afternoon,  among  the  salt-lagoons 
stretching  away  towards  Marsala.  But  there  is  a  whole 
legion  of  windmills,  and  Don  Quixote  would  have 
gone  off  his  head.  There  they  spin,  hither  and  thither, 
upon  the  pale-blue  sea-levels.  And  perhaps  one 
catches  a  glitter  of  white  salt-heaps.  For  these  are 
the  great  salt-lagoons  which  make  Trapani  rich. 

We  are  entering  the  harbour-basin,  however,  past  the 
old  castle  out  on  the  spit,  past  the  little  light-house, 
then  through  the  entrance,  slipping  quietly  on  the  now 
tranquil  water.  Oh,  and  how  pleasant  the  fulness  of 
the  afternoon  sun  flooding  this  round,  fast-sleeping 
harbour,  along  whose  side  the  tall  palms  drowse,  and 
whose  waters  are  fast  asleep.  It  seems  quite  a  small, 
cosy  harbour,  with  the  great  buildings  warm-colored  in 
the  sun  behind  the  dark  tree-avenue  of  the  marina. 
The  same  silent,  sleeping,  endlessly  sun-warmed 
stateliness. 

In  the  midst  of  this  tranquillity  we  slowly  turn  round 
upon  the  shining  water,  and  in  a  few  moments  are 

moored,    There  are  other  ships  moored  away  to  the 

[  7'  j 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

right:  all  asleep,  apparently,  in  the  flooding  of  the 
afternoon  sun.  Beyond  the  harbour  entrance  runs  the 
great  sea  and  the  wind.  Here  all  is  still  and  hot  and 
forgotten. 

"Vous  descendez  en  terre?"  shouts  the  young  woman, 
in  her  energetic  French — she  leaves  off  holding  the 
young  men's  hands  for  the  moment.  We  are  not  quite 
sure:  and  we  don't  want  her  to  come  with  us,  anyhow, 
for  her  French  is  not  our  French. 

The  land  sleeps  on:  nobody  takes  any  notice  of  us: 
but  just  one  boat  paddles  out  the  dozen  yards  to  our 
side.  We  decide  to  set  foot  on  shore. 

One  should  not,  and  we  knew  it.  One  should  never 
enter  into  these  southern  towns  that  look  so  nice,  so 
lovely,  from  the  outside.  However,  we  thought  we 
would  buy  some  cakes.  So  we  crossed  the  avenue 
which  looks  so  beautiful  from  the  sea,  and  which, 
when  you  get  into  it,  is  a  cross  between  an  outside  place 
where  you  throw  rubbish  and  a  humpy  unmade  road  in 
a  raw  suburb,  with  a  few  iron  seats,  and  litter  of  old 
straw  and  rag.  Indescribably  dreary  in  itself:  yet  with 
noble  trees,  and  lovely  sunshine,  and  the  sea  and  the 
islands  gleaming  magic  beyond  the  harbour  mouth,  and 
the  sun,  the  eternal  sun  full  f ocussed.  A  few  mangy, 
nothing-to-do  people  stand  disconsolately  about,  in 

[  72  ] 


THE  SEA 

southern  fashion,  as  if  they  had  been  left  there,  water- 
logged, by  the  last  flood,  and  were  waiting  for  the 
next  flood  to  wash  them  further.  Round  the  corner 
along  the  quay  a  Norwegian  steamer  dreams  that  she  is 
being  loaded,  in  the  muddle  of  the  small  port. 

We  looked  at  the  cakes — heavy  and  wan  they  ap- 
peared to  our  sea-rolled  stomachs.  So  we  strolled  into 
a  main  street,  dark  and  dank  like  a  sewer.  A  tram 
bumped  to  a  standstill,  as  if  now  at  last  was  the  end 
of  the  world.  Children  coming  from  school  ecstati- 
cally ran  at  our  heels,  with  bated  breath,  to  hear  the 
vocal  horrors  of  our  foreign  speech.  We  turned  down 
a  dark  side  alley,  about  forty  paces  deep:  and  were  on 
the  northern  bay,  and  on  a  black  stench  that  seemed  like 
the  perpetual  sewer,  a  bank  of  mud. 

So  we  got  to  the  end  of  the  black  main  street,  and 
turned  in  haste  to  the  sun.  Ah — in  a  moment  we  were 
in  it.  There  rose  the  palms,  there  lay  our  ship  in 
the  shining,  curving  basin — and  there  f  ocussed  the  sun, 
so  that  in  a  moment  we  were  drunk  or  dazed  by  it. 
Dazed.  We  sat  on  an  iron  seat  in  the  rubbish-desolate, 
sun-stricken  avenue. 

A  ragged  and  dirty  girl  was  nursing  a  fat  and  moist 
and  immovable  baby  and  tending  to  a  grimy  fat  infant 
boy.  She  stood  a  yard  away  and  gazed  at  us  as  one 

[  73  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

would  gaze  at  a  pig  one  was  going  to  buy.  She  came 
nearer,  and  examined  the  q-b.  I  had  my  big  hat  down 
over  my  eyes.  But  no,  she  had  taken  her  seat  at  my 
side,  and  poked  her  face  right  under  my  hat  brim,  so 
that  her  towzled  hair  touched  me,  and  I  thought  she 
would  kiss  me.  But  again  no.  With  her  breath  on 
my  cheek  she  only  gazed  on  my  face  as  if  it  were  a 
wax  mystery.  I  got  up  hastily. 

"Too  much  for  me,"  said  I  to  the  q-b. 

She  laughed,  and  asked  what  the  baby  was  called. 
The  baby  was  called  Beppina,  as  most  babies  are. 

Driven  forth,  we  wandered  down  the  desolate 
avenue  of  shade  and  sun  towards  the  ship,  and  turned 
once  more  into  the  town.  We  had  not  been  on  shore 
more  than  ten  minutes.  This  time  we  went  to  the 
right,  and  found  more  shops.  The  streets  were  dark 
and  sunless  and  cold.  And  Trapani  seemed  to  me  to 
sell  only  two  commodities:  cured  rabbit  skins  and  cat- 
skins,  and  great,  hideous,  modern  bed-spread  arrange- 
ments of  heavy  flowered  silk  and  fabulous  price.  They 
seem  to  think  nothing  of  thousands  of  liras,  in  Trapani. 

But  most  remarkable  was  bunny  and  pussy. 
Bunny  and  pussy,  flattened  out  like  pressed  leaves, 
dangling  in  clusters  everywhere.  Furs!  white  bunny, 
black  bunny  in  great  abundance,  piebald  bunny,  grey 
bunny: — then  pussy,  tabby  pussy,  and  tortoiseshell 

[  74  ] 


THE  SEA 

pussy,  but  mostly  black  pussy,  in  a  ghastly  semblance 
of  life,  all  flat,  of  course.  Just  single  furs.  Clusters, 
bunches,  heaps,  and  dangling  arrays  of  plain-superficies 
puss  and  bun-bun!  Puss  and  bun  by  the  dozen  and 
the  twenty,  like  dried  leaves,  for  your  choice.  If 
a  cat  from  a  ship  should  chance  to  find  itself  in 
Trapani  streets,  it  would  give  a  mortal  yell,  and  go 
mad,  I  am  sure. 

We  strolled  for  ten  more  minutes  in  this  narrow, 
tortuous,  unreal  town,  that  seemed  to  have  plenty  of 
flourishing  inhabitants,  and  a  fair  number  of  Socialists, 
if  one  was  to  judge  by  the  great  scrawlings  on  the  walls: 
W.  LENIN  and  ABASSO  LA  BORGHESIA.  Don't  im- 
agine, by  the  way,  that  Lenin  is  another  Wille  on  the 
list.  The  apparent  initial  stands  for  Evviva,  the 
double  V. 

Cakes  one  dared  not  buy,  after  looking  at  them. 
But  we  found  macaroon  biscuits,  and  a  sort  of  flat 
plaster-casts  of  the  Infant  Jesus  under  a  dove,  of  which 
we  bought  two.  The  q-b  ate  her  macaroon  biscuits 
all  through  the  streets,  and  we  went  towards  the  ship. 
The  fat  boatman  hailed  us  to  take  us  back.  It  was 
just  about  eight  yards  of  water  to  row,  the  ship  being 
moored  on  the  quay:  one  could  have  jumped  it.  I 
gave  the  fat  boatman  two  liras,  two  francs.  He  im- 

[  75  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

mediately  put  on  the  socialist-workman  indignation, 
and  thrust  the  note  back  at  me.  Sixty  centimes  more! 
The  fee  was  thirteen  sous  each  way!  In  Venice  or 
Syracuse  it  would  be  two  sous.  I  looked  at  him  and 
gave  him  the  money  and  said:  "Per  Dio,  we  are  in  Tra- 
pani ! "  He  muttered  back  something  about  foreigners. 
But  the  hateful,  unmanly  insolence  of  these  lords  of 
toil,  now  they  have  their  various  "unions"  behind  them 
and  their  "rights"  as  working  men,  sends  my  blood 
black.  They  are  ordinary  men  no  more:  the  human, 
happy  Italian  is  most  marvellously  vanished.  New 
honors  come  upon  them,  etc.  The  dignity  of  human 
labour  is  on  its  hind  legs,  busy  giving  every  poor  inno- 
cent who  isn't  ready  for  it  a  kick  in  the  mouth. 

But,  once  more  in  parenthesis,  let  me  remind  myself 
that  it  is  our  own  English  fault.  We  have  slobbered 
about  the  nobility  of  toil,  till  at  last  the  nobles  naturally 
insist  on  eating  the  cake.  And  more  than  that,  we  have 
set  forth,  politically,  on  such  a  high  and  Galahad  quest 
of  holy  liberty,  and  been  caught  so  shamelessly  filling 
our  pockets,  that  no  wonder  the  naive  and  idealistic 
south  turns  us  down  with  a  bang. 

Well,  we  are  back  on  the  ship.  And  we  want  tea. 
On  the  list  by  the  door  it  says  we  are  to  have  coffee, 

[  76 1 


THE  SEA 

milk  and  butter  at  8.30:  luncheon  at  11.30:  tea,  coffee 
or  chocolate  at  3.00:  and  dinner  at  6.30.  And  more- 
over: "The  company  will  feed  the  passengers  for  the 
normal  duration  of  the  voyage  only."  Very  well — 
very  well.  Then  where  is  tea?  Not  any  signs!  and 
the  alpaca  jackets  giving  us  a  wide  berth.  But  we  find 
our  man,  and  demand  our  rights:  at  least  the  q-b  does. 

The  tickets  from  Palermo  to  Cagliari  cost,  together, 
583  liras.  Of  this,  250  liras  was  for  the  ticket,  and 
40  liras  each  for  the  food.  This,  for  two  tickets, 
would  make  580  liras.  The  odd  three  for  usual 
stamps.  The  voyage  was  supposed  to  last  about  thirty 
or  thirty-two  hours:  from  eight  of  the  morning  of  de- 
parture to  two  or  four  of  the  following  afternoon. 
Surely  we  pay  for  our  tea. 

The  other  passengers  have  emerged:  a  large,  pale, 
fat,  "handsome"  Palermitan  who  is  going  to  be  pro- 
fessor at  Cagliari :  his  large,  fat,  but  high-coloured  wife: 
and  three  children,  a  boy  of  fourteen  like  a  thin,  frail, 
fatherly  girl,  a  little  boy  in  a  rabbit-skin  overcoat,  com- 
ing rather  unfluffed,  and  a  girl-child  on  the  mother's 
knee.  The  one-year-old  girl-child  being,  of  course, 
the  only  man  in  the  party. 

They  have  all  been  sick  all  day,  and  look  washed  out. 
We  sympathise.  They  lament  the  cruelties  of  the 
journey — and  senza  servizio!  senza  servizio!  without 

[  77  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

any  maid  servant.  The  mother  asks  for  coffee,  and  a 
cup  of  milk  for  the  children:  then,  seeing  our  tea  with 
lemon,  and  knowing  it  by  repute,  she  will  have  tea. 
But  the  rabbit-boy  will  have  coffee — coffee  and  milk — 
and  nothing  else.  And  an  orange.  And  the  baby  will 
have  lemon,  pieces  of  lemon.  And  the  fatherly  young 
"miss"  of  an  adolescent  brother  laughs  indulgently  at 
all  the  whims  of  these  two  young  ones:  the  father 
laughs  and  thinks  it  all  adorable  and  expects  us  to 
adore.  He  is  almost  too  washed-out  to  attend  prop- 
erly, to  give  the  full  body  of  his  attention. 

So  the  mother  gets  her  cup  of  tea — and  puts  a  piece 
of  lemon  in — and  then  milk  on  top  of  that.  The  rab- 
bit boy  sucks  an  orange,  slobbers  in  the  tea,  insists  on 
coffee  and  milk,  tries  a  piece  of  lemon,  and  gets  a  bis- 
cuit. The  baby,  with  weird  faces,  chews  pieces  of 
lemon:  and  drops  them  in  the  family  cup:  and  fishes 
them  out  with  a  little  sugar,  and  dribbles  them  across 
the  table  to  her  mouth,  throws  them  away  and  reaches 
for  a  new  sour  piece.  They  all  think  it  humorous  and 
adorable.  Arrives  the  milk,  to  be  treated  as  another 
loving  cup,  mingled  with  orange,  lemon,  sugar,  tea, 
biscuit,  chocolate,  and  cake.  Father,  mother,  and  elder 
brother  partake  of  nothing,  they  haven't  the  stomach. 
But  they  are  charmed,  of  course,  by  the  pretty  pranks 
and  messes  of  the  infants.  They  have  extraordinary 


THE  SEA 

amiable  patience,  and  find  the  young  ones  a  perpetual 
source  of  charming  amusement.  They  look  at  one 
another,  the  elder  ones,  and  laugh  and  comment,  while 
the  two  young  ones  mix  themselves  and  the  table  into 
a  lemon  -  milk  -  orange  -  tea-sugar-biscuit-cake-chocolate 
mess.  This  inordinate  Italian  amiable  patience  with 
their  young  monkeys  is  astonishing.  It  makes  the 
monkeys  more  monkey-like,  and  self-conscious  incredi- 
bly, so  that  a  baby  has  all  the  tricks  of  a  Babylonian 
harlot,  making  eyes  and  trying  new  pranks.  Till  at 
last  one  sees  the  southern  Holy  Family  as  an  unholy 
triad  of  imbecility. 

Meanwhile  I  munched  my  Infant-Jesus-and-Dove 
arrangement,  which  was  rather  like  eating  thin  glass,  so 
hard  and  sharp.  It  was  made  of  almond  and  white  of 
egg  presumably,  and  was  not  so  bad  if  you  could  eat 
it  at  all.  It  was  a  Christmas  relic. — And  I  watched 
the  Holy  Family  across  the  narrow  board,  and  tried  not 
to  look  all  I  felt. 

Going  on  deck  as  soon  as  possible,  we  watched  the 
loading  of  barrels  of  wine  into  the  hold — a  mild  and 
happy-go-lucky  process.  The  ship  seemed  to  be  al- 
most as  empty  of  cargo  as  of  passengers.  Of  the  latter, 
we  were  apparently  twelve  adults,  all  told,  and  the 
three  children.  And  as  for  cargo,  there  were  the 

[   79   1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

wooden  chests  of  the  officer,  and  these  fourteen  barrels 
of  wine  from  Trapani.  The  last  were  at  length  set- 
tled more  or  less  firm,  the  owner,  or  the  responsible 
landsman  seeing  to  it.  No  one  on  the  ship  seemed  to 
be  responsible  for  anything.  And  four  of  the  in- 
numerable crew  were  replacing  the  big  planks  over  the 
hold.  It  was  curious  how  forlorn  the  ship  seemed  to 
feel,  now  she  was  ready  for  sea  again.  Her  innumera- 
ble crew  did  not  succeed  in  making  her  alive.  She  ran 
her  course  like  a  lost  soul  across  the  Mid-Mediter- 
ranean. 

Outside  the  harbour  the  sun  was  sinking,  gorgeous 
gold  and  red  the  sky,  and  vast,  beyond  the  darkening 
islands  of  the  Egades  group.  Coming  as  we  did  from 
the  east  side  of  the  island,  where  dawn  beyond  the 
Ionian  sea  is  the  day's  great  and  familiar  event:  so 
decisive  an  event,  that  as  the  light  appears  along  the 
sea's  rim,  so  do  my  eyes  invariably  open  and  look  at  it, 
and  know  it  is  dawn,  and  as  the  night-purple  is  fused 
back,  and  a  little  scarlet  thrills  towards  the  zenith,  in- 
variably, day  by  day,  I  feel  I  must  get  up:  coming  from 
the  east,  shut  off  hermetically  from  the  west  by  the 
steep  spikes  of  the  mountains  at  our  back,  we  felt  this 
sunset  in  the  African  sea  terrible  and  dramatic.  It 
seemed  much  more  magnificent  and  tragic  than  our 

[  80  ] 


THE  SEA 

Ionian  dawn,  which  has  always  a  suggestion  of  a  flower 
opening.  But  this  great  red,  trumpet-flaring  sunset 
had  something  African,  half -sinister,  upon  the  sea:  and 
it  seemed  so  far  off,  in  an  unknown  land.  Whereas 
our  Ionian  dawn  always  seems  near  and  familiar  and 
happy. 

A  different  goddess  the  Eryx  Astarte,  the  woman 
Ashtaroth,  Erycina  ridens  must  have  been,  in  her  pre- 
historic dark  smiling,  watching  the  fearful  sunsets  be- 
yond the  Egades,  from  our  gold-lighted  Apollo  of  the 
Ionian  east.  She  is  a  strange  goddess  to  me,  this 
Erycina  Venus,  and  the  west  is  strange  and  unfamiliar 
and  a  little  fearful,  be  it  Africa  or  be  it  America. 

Slowly  at  sunset  we  moved  out  of  the  harbour.  And 
almost  as  we  passed  the  bar,  away  in  front  we  saw, 
among  the  islands,  the  pricking  of  a  quick  pointed 
light.  Looking  back,  we  saw  the  light  at  the  harbour 
entrance  twitching:  and  the  remote,  lost  town  beginning 
to  glimmer.  And  night  was  settling  down  upon  the 
sea,  through  the  crimsoned  purple  of  the  last  afterglow. 

The  islands  loomed  big  as  we  drew  nearer,  dark  in 
the  thickening  darkness.  Overhead  a  magnificent 
evening-star  blazed  above  the  open  sea,  giving  me  a 
pang  at  the  heart,  for  I  was  so  used  to  see  her  hang 
just  above  the  spikes  of  the  mountains,  that  I  felt  she 
might  fall,  having  the  space  beneath. 

[  81  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

i 

Levanzo  and  the  other  large  island  were  quite  dark: 
absolutely  dark,  save  for  one  beam  of  a  lighthouse  low 
down  in  the  distance.  The  wind  was  again  strong  and 
cold:  the  ship  had  commenced  her  old  slither  and 
heave,  slither  and  heave,  which  mercifully  we  had 
forgotten.  Overhead  were  innumerable  great  stars 
active  as  if  they  were  alive  in  the  sky.  I  saw  Orion 
high  behind  us,  and  the  dog-star  glaring.  And  swish! 
went  the  sea  as  we  took  the  waves,  then  after  a  long 
trough,  swish!  This  curious  rhythmic  swishing  and 
hollow  drumming  of  a  steamer  at  sea  has  a  narcotic, 
almost  maddening  effect  on  the  spirit,  a  long,  hissing 
burst  of  waters,  then  the  hollow  roll,  and  again  the 
upheaval  to  a  sudden  hiss-ss-ss! 

A  bell  had  clanged  and  we  knew  the  crew  were  once 
more  feeding.  At  every  moment  of  the  day  and  pre- 
sumably of  the  night,  feeding  was  going  on — or  coffee- 
drinking. 

We  were  summoned  to  dinner.  Our  young  woman 
was  already  seated:  and  a  fat  uniformed  mate  or  purser 
or  official  of  some  sort  was  finishing  off  in  the  distance. 
The  pale  professor  also  appeared:  and  at  a  certain  dis- 
tance down  the  table  sat  a  little  hard-headed  grey  man 
in  a  long  grey  alpaca  travelling  coat.  Appeared  the 
beloved  macaroni  with  tomato  sauce:  no  food  for  the 


THE  SEA 

sea.  I  put  my  hopes  on  the  fish.  Had  I  not  seen 
the  cook  making  whiting  bite  their  own  tails  viciously? 
— The  fish  appeared.  And  what  was  it?  Fried  ink- 
pots. A  calamaio  is  an  ink-pot:  also  it  is  a  polyp,  a 
little  octopus  which,  alas,  frequents  the  Mediterranean 
and  squirts  ink  if  offended.  This  polyp  with  its  tenta- 
cles is  cut  up  and  fried,  and  reduced  to  the  consistency 
of  boiled  celluloid.  It  is  esteemed  a  delicacy:  but  is 
tougher  than  indiarubber,  gristly  through  and  through. 

I  have  a  peculiar  aversion  to  these  ink-pots.  Once 
in  Liguria  we  had  a  boat  of  our  own  and  paddled  with 
the  peasant  paddlers.  Alessandro  caught  ink-pots:  and 
like  this.  He  tied  up  a  female  by  a  string  in  a  cave — 
the  string  going  through  a  convenient  hole  in  her  end. 
There  she  lived,  like  an  Amphitrite's  wire-haired  ter- 
rier tied  up,  till  Alessandro  went  a-fishing.  Then  he 
towed  her,  like  a  poodle  behind.  And  thus,  like  a 
poodly-bitch,  she  attracted  hangers-on  in  the  briny 
seas.  And  these  poor  polyp  inamorati  were  the  victims. 
They  were  lifted  as  prey  on  board,  where  I  looked  with 
horror  on  their  grey,  translucent  tentacles  and  large, 
cold,  stony  eyes.  The  she-polyp  was  towed  behind 
again.  But  after  a  few  days  she  died. 

And  I  think,  even  for  creatures  so  awful-looking, 
this  method  is  indescribably  base,  and  shows  how  much 
lower  than  an  octopus  even,  is  lordly  man. 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Well,  we  chewed  a  few  ends  of  oil-fried  ink-pots, 
and  gave  it  up.  The  Cagliari  girl  gave  up  too:  the 
professor  had  not  even  tried.  Only  the  hard-headed 
grey  man  in  the  alpaca  coat  chewed  animatedly,  with 
bouncing  jaws.  Mountains  of  calamaio  remained  for 
the  joyous  blue-bottles. 

Arrived  the  inevitable  meat — this  long  piece  of  com- 
pletely tasteless  undercut  in  innumerable  grey-brown 
slices.  Oh,  Italy!  The  professor  fled. 

Arrived  the  wash-leather  pears,  the  apples,  the 
oranges — we  saved  an  apple  for  a  happier  hour. 

Arrived  coffee,  and,  as  a  magnificent  treat,  a  few 
well-known  pastries.  They  all  taste  wearily  alike. 
The  young  woman  shakes  her  head.  I  shake  mine,  but 
the  q-b,  like  a  child,  is  pleased.  Most  pleased  of  all, 
however,  are  the  blue-bottles,  who  dart  in  a  black- 
alpaca  bunch  to  the  tin  altar,  and  there  loudly  buzz, 
wildly,  above  the  sallow  cakes. 

The  citron-cheeked,  dry  one,  however,  cares  darkly 
nothing  for  cakes.  He  comes  once  more  to  twit  us 
about  wine.  So  much  so  that  the  Cagliari  girl  orders 
a  glass  of  Marsala:  and  I  must  second  her.  So  there 
we  are,  three  little  glasses  of  brown  liquid.  The 
Cagliari  girl  sips  hers  and  suddenly  flees.  The  q-b  sips 
hers  with  infinite  caution,  and  quietly  retires.  I  finish 
the  q-b's  little  glass,  and  my  own,  and  the  voracious 


THE  SEA 

blow-flies  buzz  derisively  and  excited.     The  yellow- 
cheeked  one  has  disappeared  with  the  bottle. 

From  the  professorial  cabin  faint  wails,  sometimes 
almost  fierce,  as  one  or  another  is  going  to  be  ill.  Only 
a  thin  door  is  between  this  stateroom  and  them.  The 
most  down-trodden  frayed  ancient  rag  of  a  man  goes 
discreetly  with  basins,  trying  not  to  let  out  glimpses  of 
the  awful  within.  I  climb  up  to  look  at  the  vivid, 
drenching  stars,  to  breathe  the  cold  wind,  to  see  the 
dark  sea  sliding.  Then  I  too  go  to  the  cabin,  and 
watch  the  sea  run  past  the  porthole  for  a  minute,  and 
insert  myself  like  the  meat  in  a  sandwich  into  the  tight 
lower  bunk.  Oh,  infinitessimal  cabin,  where  we  sway 
like  two  matches  in  a  match  box!  Oh  strange,  but 
even  yet  excellent  gallop  of  a  ship  at  sea. 

I  slept  not  so  badly  through  the  stifled,  rolling 
night — in  fact  later  on  slept  soundly.  And  the  day 
was  growing  bright  when  I  peered  through  the  port- 
hole, the  sea  was  much  smoother.  It  was  a  brilliant 
clear  morning.  I  made  haste  and  washed  myself 
cursorily  in  the  saucer  that  dribbled  into  a  pail  in  a 
corner:  there  was  not  space  even  for  one  chair,  this 
saucer  was  by  my  bunk-head.  And  I  went  on  deck. 

Ah  the  lovely  morning!  Away  behind  us  the  sun 
was  just  coming  above  the  sea's  horizon,  and  the  sky 

[  85  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

all  golden,  all  a  joyous,  fire-heated  gold,  and  the  sea 
was  glassy  bright,  the  wind  gone  still,  the  waves  sunk 
into  long,  low  undulations,  the  foam  of  the  wake  was 
pale  ice-blue  in  the  yellow  air.  Sweet,  sweet  wide 
morning  on  the  sea,  with  the  sun  coming,  swimming  up, 
and  a  tall  sailing  bark,  with  her  flat  fore-ladder  of 
sails  delicately  across  the  light,  and  a  far-far  steamer 
on  the  electric  vivid  morning  horizon. 

The  lovely  dawn:  the  lovely  pure,  wide  morning  in 
the  mid-sea,  so  golden-aired  and  delighted,  with  the 
sea  like  sequins  shaking,  and  the  sky  far,  far,  far  above, 
unfathomably  clear.  How  glad  to  be  on  a  ship! 
What  a  golden  hour  for  the  heart  of  man!  Ah  if  one 
could  sail  for  ever,  on  a  small  quiet,  lonely  ship,  from 
land  to  land  and  isle  to  isle,  and  saunter  through  the 
spaces  of  this  lovely  world,  always  through  the  spaces 
of  this  lovely  world.  Sweet  it  would  be  sometimes  to 
come  to  the  opaque  earth,  to  block  oneself  against  the 
stiff  land,  to  annul  the  vibration  of  one's  flight  against 
the  inertia  of  our  terra  firma!  but  life  itself  would  be 
in  the  flight,  the  tremble  of  space.  Ah  the  trembling 
of  never-ended  space,  as  one  moves  in  flight!  Space, 
and  the  frail  vibration  of  space,  the  glad  lonely  wring- 
ing of  the  heart.  Not  to  be  clogged  to  the  land  any 
more.  Not  to  be  any  more  like  a  donkey  with  a  log 

[  86  ] 


THE  SEA 

on  its  leg,  fastened  to  weary  earth  that  has  no  answer 
now.     But  to  be  off. 

To  find  three  masculine,  world-lost  souls,  and  world- 
lost  saunter,  and  saunter  on  along  with  them,  across  the 
dithering  space,  as  long  as  life  lasts!  Why  come  to 
anchor?  There  is  nothing  to  anchor  for.  Land  has 
no  answer  to  the  soul  any  more.  It  has  gone  inert. 
Give  me  a  little  ship,  kind  gods,  and  three  world-lost 
comrades.  Hear  me!  And  let  me  wander  aimless 
across  this  vivid  outer  world,  the  world  empty  of  man, 
where  space  flies  happily. 

The  lovely,  celandine-yellow  morning  of  the  open 
sea,  paling  towards  a  rare,  sweet  blue!  The  sun  stood 
above  the  horizon,  like  the  great  burning  stigma  of  the 
sacred  flower  of  day.  Mediterranean  sailing-ships,  so 
mediaeval,  hovered  on  the  faint  morning  wind,  as  if 
uncertain  which  way  to  go,  curious,  odd-winged  insects 
of  the  flower.  The  steamer,  hull-down,  was  sinking 
towards  Spain.  Space  rang  clear  about  us:  the  level 
sea! 

Appeared  the  Cagliari  young  woman  and  her  two 
friends.  She  was  looking  handsome  and  restored  now 
the  sea  was  easy.  Her  two  male  friends  stood  touch- 
ing her,  one  at  either  shoulder. 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Bonjour,  Monsieur!"  she  barked  across  at  me. 
"Vous  avez  pris  le  cafe?" 

"Pas  encore.     Et  vous?" 

"Non!     Madame  votre  femme.     .     .     ." 

She  roared  like  a  mastiff  dog:  and  then  translated 
with  unction  to  her  two  uninitiated  friends.  How  it 
was  they  did  not  understand  her  French  I  do  not  know, 
it  was  so  like  travestied  Italian. 

I  went  below  to  find  the  q-b. 

When  we  came  up,  the  faint  shape  of  land  appeared 
ahead,  more  transparent  than  thin  pearl.  Already 
Sardinia.  Magic  are  high  lands  seen  from  the  sea, 
when  they  are  far,  far  off,  and  ghostly  translucent  like 
ice-bergs.  This  was  Sardinia,  looming  like  fascinating 
shadows  in  mid-sea.  And  the  sailing  ships,  as  if  cut 
out  of  frailest  pearl  translucency,  were  wafting  away 
towards  Naples.  I  wanted  to  count  their  sails — five 
square  ones  which  I  call  the  ladder,  one  above  the 
other — but  how  many  wing-blades?  That  remained 
yet  to  be  seen. 

Our  friend  the  carpenter  spied  us  out:  at  least,  he 
was  not  my  friend.  He  didn't  find  me  simfatico,  I 
am  sure.  But  up  he  came,  and  proceeded  to  entertain 
us  with  weary  banality.  Again  the  young  woman 

[  88  1 


THE  SEA 

called,  had  we  had  coffee?  We  said  we  were  just  go- 
ing down.  And  then  she  said  that  whatever  we  had 
today  we  had  to  pay  for:  our  food  ended  with  the  one 
day.  At  which  the  q-b  was  angry,  feeling  swindled. 
But  I  had  known  before. 

We  went  down  and  had  our  coffee  notwithstanding. 
The  young  woman  came  down,  and  made  eyes  at  one 
of  the  alpaca  blue-bottles.  After  which  we  saw  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  milk  and  two  biscuits  being  taken  to  her 
into  her  cabin,  discreetly.  When  Italians  are  being 
discreet  and  on  the  sly,  the  very  air  about  them  becomes 
tell-tale,  and  seems  to  shout  with  a  thousand  tongues. 
So  with  a  thousand  invisible  tongues  clamouring  the 
fact,  the  young  woman  had  her  coffee  secretly  and 
gratis,  in  her  cabin. 

But  the  morning  was  lovely.  The  q-b  and  I  crept 
round  the  bench  at  the  very  stern  of  the  ship  and  sat 
out  of  the  wind  and  out  of  sight,  just  above  the  foam- 
ing of  the  wake.  Before  us  was  the  open  morning — 
and  the  glisten  of  our  ship's  track,  like  a  snail's  path, 
trailing  across  the  sea:  straight  for  a  little  while,  then 
giving  a  bend  to  the  left,  always  a  bend  towards  the 
left:  and  coming  at  us  from  the  pure  horizon,  like  a 
bright  snail-path.  Happy  it  was  to  sit  there  in  the 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

stillness,  with  nothing  but  the  humanless  sea  to  shine 
about  us. 

But  no,  we  were  found  out.     Arrived  the  carpenter, 

"Ah,  you  have  found  a  fine  place — !" 

"Molto  bello!"  This  from  the  q-b.  I  could  not 
bear  the  irruption. 

He  proceeded  to  talk — and  as  is  inevitable,  the  war. 
Ah,  the  war — it  was  a  terrible  thing.  He  had  become 
ill — very  ill.  Because,  you  see,  not  only  do  you  go 
without  proper  food,  without  proper  rest  and  warmth, 
but,  you  see,  you  are  in  an  agony  of  fear  for  your  life 
all  the  time.  An  agony  of  fear  for  your  life.  And 
that's  what  does  it.  Six  months  in  hospital — !  The 
q-b,  of  course,  was  sympathetic 

The  Sicilians  are  quite  simple  about  it.  They  just 
tell  you  they  were  frightened  to  death,  and  it  made 
them  ill.  The  q-b,  woman-like,  loves  them  for  being 
so  simple  about  it.  I  feel  angry  somewhere.  For 
they  expect  a  full-blown  sympathy.  And  however  the 
great  god  Mars  may  have  shrunk  and  gone  wizened  in 
the  world,  it  still  annoys  me  to  hear  him  so  blasphemed. 

Near  us  the  automatic  log  was  spinning,  the  thin 
rope  trailing  behind  us  in  the  sea.  Erratically  it  jerked 
and  spun,  with  spasmodic  torsion.  He  explained  that 
the  little  screw  at  the  end  of  the  line  spun  to  the  speed 

1 90  ] 


THE  SEA 

of  travelling.  We  were  going  from  ten  to  twelve 
Italian  miles  to  the  hour.  Ah,  yes,  we  could  go  twenty. 
But  we  went  no  faster  than  ten  or  twelve,  to  save  the 
coal.  ,  -Hilll 

The  coal — il  carbone!  I  knew  we  were  in  for  it. 
England — 1'Inghilterra  she  has  the  coal.  And  what 
does  she  do?  She  sells  it  very  dear.  Particularly  to 
Italy.  Italy  won  the  war  and  now  can't  even  have 
coal.  Because  why!  The  price.  The  exchange!  il 
cambio.  Now  I  am  doubly  in  for  it.  Two  countries 
had  been  able  to  keep  their  money  high — England  and 
America.  The  English  sovereign — la  sterlina — and 
the  American  dollar — say  these  were  money.  The 
English  and  the  Americans  flocked  to  Italy,  with  their 
sterlme  and  their  dollari,  and  they  bought  what  they 
wanted  for  nothing,  for  nothing.  Ecco!  Whereas 
we  poor  Italians — we  are  in  a  state  of  ruination — proper 
ruination.  The  allies,  etc.,  etc. 

I  am  so  used  to  it — I  am  so  wearily  used  to  it.  I 
can't  walk  a  stride  without  having  this  wretched  cambio y 
the  exchange,  thrown  at  my  head.  And  this  with  an 
injured  petulant  spitefulness  which  turns  my  blood. 
For  I  assure  them,  whatever  I  have  in  Italy  I  pay  for: 
and  I  am  not  England.  I  am  not  the  British  Isles  on 
two  legs. 

Germany — La  Germania — she  did  wrong  to  make  the 

[  91  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

war.  But — there  you  are,  that  was  war.  Italy  and 
Germany — PItalia  e  la  Germania — they  had  always 
been  friends.  In  Palermo.  .  .  . 

My  God,  I  felt  I  could  not  stand  it  another  second. 
To  sit  above  the  foam  and  have  this  miserable  creature 
stuffing  wads  of  chewed  newspaper  into  my  ear — no,  I 
could  not  bear  it.  In  Italy,  there  is  no  escape.  Say 
two  words,  and  the  individual  starts  chewing  old  news- 
paper aqd  stuffing  it  into  you.  No  escape.  You  be- 
come— if  you  are  English — lylnghilterray  il  car- 
bone y  and  il  .cambio;  and  as  England,  coal  and 
exchange  you  are  treated.  It  is  more  than  use- 
less to  try  to  be  human  about  it.  You  are  a 
State  usury  system,  a  coal  fiend  and  an  exchange 
thief.  Every  Englishman  has  disappeared  into  this 
triple  abstraction,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Italian,  of  the 
proletariat  particularly.  Try  and  get  them  to  be  hu- 
man, try  and  get  them  to  see  that  you  are  simply  an 
individual,  if  you  can.  After  all,  I  am  no  more  than 
a  single  human  man  wandering  my  lonely  way  across 
these  years.  But  no — to  an  Italian  I  am  a  perfected 
abstraction,  England — coal — exchange.  The  Germans 
were  once  devils  for  inhuman  theoretic  abstracting  of 
living  beings.  But  now  the  Italians  beat  them.  I  am 
a  walking  column  of  statistics,  which  adds  up  badly  for 

[  9*  ] 


THE  SEA 

Italy.     Only  this  and  nothing  more.     Which  being  so, 
I  shut  my  mouth  and  walk  away. 

For  the  moment  the  carpenter  is  shaken  off.  But  I 
am  in  a  rage,  fool  that  I  am.  It  is  like  being  pestered 
by  their  mosquitoes.  The  sailing  ships  are  near — and 
I  count  fifteen  sails.  Beautiful  they  look!  Yet  if  I 
were  on  board  somebody  would  be  chewing  newspaper 
at  me,  and  addressing  me  as  England — coal — exchange. 

The  mosquito  hovers — and  hovers.  But  'the  stony 
blank  of  the  side  of  my  cheek  keeps  him  away.  Yet 
he  hovers.  And  the  q-b  feels  sympathetic  towards 
him:  quite  sympathetic.  Because  of  course  he  treats 
her — a  bel  -pezzo — as  if  he  would  lick  her  boots,  or 
anything  else  that  she  would  let  him  lick. 

Meanwhile  we  eat  the  apples  from  yesterday's  des- 
sert, and  the  remains  of  the  q-b's  Infant-Jesus-and- 
dove  cake.  The  land  is  drawing  nearer — we  can  see 
the  shape  of  the  end  promontory  and  peninsula — and 
a  white  speck  like  a  church.  The  bulk  of  the  land  is 
forlorn  and  rather  shapeless,  coming  towards  us:  but 
attractive. 

Looking  ahead  towards  the  land  gives  us  away.  The 
mosquito  swoops  on  us.  Yes — he  is  not  sure — he 
thinks  the  white  speck  is  a  church — or  a  lighthouse. 

[  93  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

When  you  pass  the  cape  on  the  right,  and  enter  the 
wide  bay  between  Cape  Spartivento  and  Cape  Car- 
bonara,  then  you  have  two  hours  sail  to  Cagliari.  We 
shall  arrive  between  two  and  three  o'clock.  It  is  now 
eleven. 

Yes,  the  sailing  ships  are  probably  going  to  Naples. 
There  is  not  much  wind  for  them  now.  When  there  is 
wind  they  go  fast,  faster  than  our  steamer.  Ah 
Naples — bella,  bella,  eh?  A  little  dirty,  say  I.  But 
what  do  you  want?  says  he.  A  great  city!  Palermo 
of  course  is  better. 

Ah — the  Neapolitan  women — he  says,  a  propos  or 
not.  They  do  their  hair  so  fine,  so  neat  and  beauti- 
ful— but  underneath — sotto — sotto — they  are  dirty. 
This  being  received  in  cold  silence,  he  continues:  Not 
giriamo  il  mondo!  Not,  chi  giriamo,  conoscmmo  il 
mondo.  We  travel  about,  and  we  know  the  world. 
Who  we  are,  I  do  not  know:  his  highness  the  Paler- 
mitan  carpenter  lout,  no  doubt.  But  we,  who  travel, 
know  the  world.  He  is  preparing  his  shot.  The 
Neapolitan  women,  and  the  English  women,  in  this  are 
equal:  that  they  are  dirty  underneath.  Underneath, 
they  are  dirty.  The  women  of  London — 

But  it  is  getting  too  much  for  me. 

"You  who  look  for  dirty  women,"  say  I,  "find  dirty 
women  everywhere." 

[  94  ] 


THE  SEA 

He  stops  short  and  watches  me. 

"No!  No!  You  have  not  understood  me.  No! 
I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  the  Neapolitan  women 
and  the  English  women  have  dirty  underclothing — " 

To  which  he  gets  no  answer  but  a  cold  look  and  a 
cold  cheek.  Whereupon  he  turns  to  the  q-b,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  be  simpatica.  And  after  a  few  moments  he 
turns  again  to  me: 

"II  signore  is  offended!      He  is  offended  with  me." 

But  I  turn  the  other  way.  And  at  last  he  clears  out : 
in  triumph,  I  must  admit:  like  a  mosquito  that  has  bit- 
ten one  in  the  neck.  As  a  matter  of  fact  one  should 
never  let  these  fellows  get  into  conversation  nowadays. 
They  are  no  longer  human  beings.  They  hate  one's 
Englishness,  and  leave  out  the  individual. 

We  walk  forward,  towards  the  fore-deck,  where  the 
captain's  lookout  cabin  is.  The  captain  is  an  elderly 
man,  silent  and  crushed:  with  the  look  of  a  gentleman. 
But  he  looks  beaten  down.  Another,  still  another 
member  of  the  tray-carrying  department  is  just  creep- 
ing up  his  ladder  with  a  cup  of  black  coffee.  Return- 
ing, we  peep  down  the  skylight  into  the  kitchen.  And 
there  we  see  roast  chicken  and  sausages — roast  chicken 
and  sausages!  Ah,  this  is  where  the  sides  of  kid  and 
the  chickens  and  the  good  things  go:  all  down  the 

[  95  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

throats  of  the  crew.     There  is  no  more  food  for  us, 
until  we  land. 

We  have  passed  the  cape — and  the  white  thing 
is  a  lighthouse.  And  the  fattish,  handsome  professor 
has  come  up  carrying  the  little  girl-child,  while  the 
f emalish  elder  brother  leads  the  rabbit-fluffy  small  boy 
by  the  hand.  So  en  jamille:  so  terribly  en  famille. 
They  deposit  themselves  near  us,  and  it  threatens 
another  conversation.  But  not  for  anything,  my  dears ! 

The  sailors — not  sailors,  some  of  the  street-corner 
loafers,  are  hoisting  the  flag,  the  red-white-and-green 
Italian  tricolor.  It  floats  at  the  mast-head,  and  the 
femalish  brother,  in  a  fine  burst  of  feeling,  takes  off  his 
funny  hat  with  a  flourish  and  cries: 

"Ecco  la  bandiera  italiana!" 

Ach,  the  hateful  sentimentalism  of  these  days. 

The  land  passes  slowly,  very  slowly.  It  is  hilly, 
but  barren  looking,  with  few  trees.  And  it  is  not 
spikey  and  rather  splendid,  like  Sicily.  Sicily  has 
style.  We  keep  along  the  east  side  of  the  bay — away 
in  the  west  is  Cape  Spartivento.  And  still  no  sight  of 
Cagliari. 

"Two  hours  yet!"  cries  the  Cagliari  girl.  "Two 
hours  before  we  eat.  Ah,  when  I  get  on  land,  what 
a  good  meal  I  shall  eat." 

[  96  ] 


THE  SEA 

The  men  haul  in  the  automatic  log.  The  sky  is 
clouding  over  with  that  icy  curd  which  comes  after 
midday  when  the  bitter  north  wind  is  blowing.  It  is 
no  longer  warm. 

Slowly,  slowly  we  creep  along  the  formless  shore. 
An  hour  passes.  We  see  a  little  fort  ahead,  done  in 
enormous  black-and-white  checks,  like  a  fragment  of 
gigantic  chess-board.  It  stands  at  the  end  of  a  long 
spit  of  land — a  long,  barish  peninsula  that  has  no  houses 
and  looks  as  if  it  might  be  golf-links.  But  it  is  not 
golf-links. 

And  suddenly  there  is  Cagliari:  a  naked  town  rising 
steep,  steep,  golden-looking,  piled  naked  to  the  sky 
from  the  plain  at  the  head  of  the  formless  hollow  bay. 
It  is  strange  and  rather  wonderful,  not  a  bit  like  Italy. 
The  city  piles  up  lofty  and  almost  miniature,  and  makes 
me  think  of  Jerusalem:  without  trees,  without  cover, 
rising  rather  bare  and  proud,  remote  as  if  back  in  his- 
tory, like  a  town  in  a  monkish,  illuminated  missal. 
One  wonders  how  it  ever  got  there.  And  it  seems 
like  Spain — or  Malta:  not  Italy.  It  is  a  steep  and 
lonely  city,  treeless,  as  in  some  old  illumination.  Yet 
withal  rather  jewel-like:  like  a  sudden  rose-cut  amber 
jewel  naked  at  the  depth  of  the  vast  indenture.  The 
air  is  cold,  blowing  bleak  and  bitter,  the  sky  is  all  curd. 

[  97  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

And  that  is  Cagliari.  It  has  that  curious  look,  as  if  it 
could  be  seen,  but  not  entered.  It  is  like  some  vision, 
some  memory,  something  that  has  passed  away. 
Impossible  that  one  can  actually  walk  in  that  city:  set 
foot  there  and  eat  and  laugh  there.  Ah,  no!  Yet 
the  ship  drifts  nearer,  nearer,  and  we  are  looking  for 
the  actual  harbour. 

The  usual  sea-front  with  dark  trees  for  a  promenade 
and  palatial  buildings  behind,  but  here  not  so  pink  and 
gay,  more  reticent,  more  sombre  of  yellow  stone.  The 
harbour  itself  a  little  basin  of  water,  into  which  we  are 
slipping  carefully,  while  three  salt-barges  laden  with 
salt  as  white  as  snow  creep  round  from  the  left,  drawn 
by  an  infinitesimal  tug.  There  are  only  two  other  for- 
lorn ships  in  the  basin.  It  is  cold  on  deck.  The  ship 
turns  slowly  round,  and  is  being  hauled  to  the  quay 
side.  I  go  down  for  the  knapsack,  and  a  fat  blue-bottle 
pounces  at  me. 

"You  pay  nine  francs  fifty." 

I  pay  them,  and  we  get  off  that  ship. 


III. 

CAGLIARI. 

THERE  is  a  very  little  crowd  waiting  on  the 
quay:  mostly  men  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets.     But,  thank  Heaven,  they  have  a 
certain  aloofness  and  reserve.     They  are  not  like  the 
tourist-parasites  of  these  post-war  days,  who  move  to 
the  attack  with  a  terrifying  cold  vindictiveness  the  mo- 
ment one  emerges  from  any  vehicle.     And  some  of 
these    men    look   really   poor.     There    are    no   poor 
Italians  any  more:  at  least,  loafers. 

Strange  the  feeling  round  the  harbour:  as  if  every- 
body had  gone  away.  Yet  there  are  people  about. 
It  is  "festa"  however,  Epiphany.  But  it  is  so  different 
from  Sicily:  none  of  the  suave  Greek-Italian  charms, 
none  of  the  airs  and  graces,  none  of  the  glamour. 
Rather  bare,  rather  stark,  rather  cold  and  yellow — 
somehow  like  Malta,  without  Malta's  foreign  liveli- 
ness. Thank  Goodness  no  one  wants  to  carry  my  knap- 
sack. Thank  Goodness  no  one  has  a  fit  at  the  sight  of 

[  99  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

it.  Thank  Heaven  no  one  takes  any  notice.  They 
stand  cold  and  aloof,  and  don't  move. 

We  make  our  way  through  the  Customs:  then 
through  the  Dazio,  the  City  Customs-house.  Then 
we  are  free.  We  set  off  up  a  steep,  new,  broad  road, 
with  little  trees  on  either  side.  But  stone,  arid,  new, 
wide  stone,  yellowish  under  the  cold  sky — and  aban- 
doned-seeming. Though,  of  course,  there  are  people 
about.  The  north  wind  blows  bitingly. 

We  climb  a  broad  flight  of  steps,  always  upwards, 
up  the  wide,  precipitous,  dreary  boulevard  with  sprouts 
of  trees.  Looking  for  the  Hotel,  and  dying  with 
hunger. 

•^ 

At  last  we  find  it,  the  Scala  di  Ferro:  through  a 
courtyard  with  green  plants.  And  at  last  a  little  man 
with  lank,  black  hair,  like  an  esquimo,  comes  smiling. 
He  is  one  brand  of  Sardinian — esquimo  looking. 
There  is  no  room  with  two  beds:  only  single  rooms. 
And  thus  we  are  led  off,  if  you  please,  to  the  "bagnio": 
the  bathing-establishment  wing,  on  the  dank  ground 
floor.  Cubicles  on  either  side  a  stone  passage,  and  in 
every  cubicle  a  dark  stone  bath,  and  a  little  bed.  We 
can  have  each  a  little  bath  cubicle.  If  there's  nothing 
else  for  it,  there  isn't:  but  it  seems  dank  and  cold  and 
horrid,  underground.  And  one  thinks  of  all  the  un- 

[    100   ] 


ISILI 


Jan  Juta 


CAGLIARI 

savory  "assignations"  at  these  old  bagnio  places.  True, 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  are  seated  two  carabinieri. 
But  whether  to  ensure  respectibility  or  not,  Heaven 
knows.  We  are  in  the  baths,  that's  all. 

The  esquimo  returns  after  five  minutes,  however. 
There  is  a  bedroom  in  the  house.  He  is  pleased,  be- 
cause he  didn't  like  putting  us  into  the  bagnio.  Where 
he  found  the  bedroom  I  don't  know.  But  there  it  was, 
large,  sombre,  cold,  and  over  the  kitchen  fumes  of  a 
small  inner  court  like  a  well.  But  perfectly  clean  and 
all  right.  And  the  people  seemed  warm  and  good- 
natured,  like  human  beings.  One  has  got  so  used  to 
the  non-human  ancient-souled  Sicilians,  who  are  suave 
and  so  completely  callous. 

After  a  really  good  meal  we  went  out  to  see  the 
town.  It  was  after  three  o'clock  and  everywhere  was 
shut  up  like  an  English  Sunday.  Cold,  stony  Cagliari: 
in  summer  you  must  be  sizzling  hot,  Cagliari,  like  a 
kiln.  The  men  stood  about  in  groups,  but  without  the 
intimate  Italian  watchfulness  that  never  leaves  a  passer- 
by alone. 

Strange,  stony  Cagliari.  We  climbed  up  a  street 
like  a  corkscrew  stairway.  And  we  saw  announcements 
of  a  children's  fancy-dress  ball.  Cagliari  is  very  steep. 
Half-way  up  there  is  a  strange  place  called  the  bastions, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

a  large,  level  space  like  a  drill-ground  with  trees,  curi- 
ously suspended  over  the  town,  and  sending  off  a  long 
shoot  like  a  wide  viaduct,  across  above  the  corkscrew 
street  that  comes  climbing  up.  Above  this  bastion  place 
the  town  still  rises  steeply  to  the  Cathedral  and  the 
fort.  What  is  so  curious  is  that  this  terrace  or  bastion 
is  so  large,  like  some  big  recreation  ground,  that  it  is 
almost  dreary,  and  one  cannot  understand  its  being  sus- 
pended in  mid-air.  Down  below  is  the  little  circle  of 
the  harbour.  To  the  left  a  low,  malarial-looking  sea 
plain,  with  tufts  of  palm  trees  and  Arab-looking  houses. 
From  this  runs  out  the  long  spit  of  land  towards  that 
black-and-white  watch-fort,  the  white  road  trailing 
forth.  On  the  right,  most  curiously,  a  long  strange 
spit  of  sand  runs  in  a  causeway  far  across  the  shallows 
of  the  bay,  with  the  open  sea  on  one  hand,  and  vast, 
end-of-the-world  lagoons  on  the  other.  There  are 
peaky,  dark  mountains  beyond  this — just  as  across  the 
vast  bay  are  gloomy  hills.  It  is  a  strange,  strange 
landscape:  as  if  here  the  world  left  off.  The  bay  is 
vast  in  itself ;  and  all  these  curious  things  happening  at 
its  head:  this  curious,  craggy-studded  town,  like  a  great 
stud  of  house-covered  rock  jutting  up  out  of  the  bay 
flats:  around  it  on  one  side  the  weary,  Arab-looking 
palm-desolated  malarial  plain,  and  on  the  other  side 
great  salt  lagoons,  dead  beyond  the  sand-bar:  these 

[   102   ] 


CAGLIARI 

backed  again  by  serried,  clustered  mountains,  suddenly, 
while  away  beyond  the  plain,  hills  rise  to  sea  again. 
Land  and  sea  both  seem  to  give  out,  exhausted,  at 
the  bay  head:  the  world's  end.  And  into  this  world's 
end  starts  up  Cagliari,  and  on  either  side,  sudden,  ser- 
pent-crest hills. 

But  it  still  reminds  me  of  Malta:  lost  between 
Europe  and  Africa  and  belonging  to  nowhere.  Be- 
longing to  nowhere,  never  having  belonged  to  any- 
where. To  Spain  and  the  Arabs  and  the  Phoenicians 
most.  But  as  if  it  had  never  really  had  a  fate.  No 
fate.  Left  outside  of  time  and  history. 

The  spirit  of  the  place  is  a  strange  thing.  Our 
mechanical  age  tries  to  override  it.  But  it  does  not 
succeed.  In  the  end  the  strange,  sinister  spirit  of  the 
place,  so  diverse  and  adverse  in  differing  places,  will 
smash  our  mechanical  oneness  into  smithereens,  and 
all  that  we  think  the  real  thing  will  go  off  with  a  pop, 
and  we  shall  be  left  staring. 

On  the  great  parapet  above  the  Municipal  Hall  and 
above  the  corkscrew  high-street  a  thick  fringe  of  people 
is  hanging,  looking  down.  We  go  to  look  too:  and 
behold,  below  there  is  the  entrance  to  the  ball.  Yes, 
there  is  a  china  shepherdess  in  pale  blue  and  powdered 
hair,  crook,  ribbons,  Marie  Antoinette  satin  daintiness 

[  103  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

and  all,  slowly  and  haughtily  walking  up  the  road,  and 
gazing  superbly  round.  She  is  not  more  than  twelve 
years  old,  moreover.  Two  servants  accompany  her. 
She  gazes  supremely  from  right  to  left  as  she  goes, 
mincingly,  and  I  would  give  her  the  prize  for  haughti- 
ness. She  is  perfect — a  little  too  haughty  for  Watteau, 
but  "marquise"  to  a  T.  The  people  watch  in  silence. 
There  is  no  yelling  and  screaming  and  running.  They 
watch  in  a  suitable  silence. 

Comes  a  carriage  with  two  fat  bay  horses  slithering, 
almost  swimming  up  the  corkscrew  high-street.  That 
in  itself  is  a  "tour-de-force":  for  Cagliari  doesn't  have 
carriages.  Imagine  a  street  like  a  corkscrew  stair,  paved 
with  slippery  stone.  And  imagine  two  bay  horses  row- 
ing their  way  up  it:  they  did  not  walk  a  single  stride. 
But  they  arrived.  And  there  fluttered  out  three 
strangely  exquisite  children,  two  frail,  white  satin  Pier- 
rots and  a  white  satin  Pierrette.  They  were  like  fragile 
winter  butterflies  with  black  spots.  They  had  a  curious, 
indefinable  remote  elegance,  something  conventional 
and  "fin-de-siecle".  But  not  our  century.  The  won- 
derful artificial  delicacy  of  the  eighteenth.  The 
boys  had  big,  perfect  ruffs  round  their  necks:  and  be- 
hind were  slung  old,  cream-colored  Spanish  shawls, 
for  warmth.  They  were  frail  as  tobacco  flowers,  and 
with  remote,  cold  elegance  they  fluttered  by  the  car- 

[   104  ] 


CAGLIARI 

riage,  from  which  emerged  a  large  black-satin  Mama. 
Fluttering  their  queer  little  butterfly  feet  on  the  pave- 
ment, hovering  round  the  large  Mama  like  three  frail- 
tissued  ghosts,  they  found  their  way  past  the  solid, 
seated  Carabinieri  into  the  hall. 

Arrived  a  primrose-brocade  beau,  with  ruffles,  and 
his  hat  under  his  arm:  about  twelve  years  old.  Walk- 
ing statelily,  without  a  qualm  up  the  steep  twist  of  the 
street.  Or  perhaps  so  perfect  in  his  self -consciousness 
that  it  became  an  elegant  "aplomb"  in  him.  He  was  a 
genuine  eighteenth-century  exquisite,  rather  stiffer  than 
the  French,  maybe,  but  completely  in  the  spirit.  Curi- 
ous, curious  children!  They  had  a  certain  stand-offish 
superbness,  and  not  a  single  trace  of  misgiving.  For 
them,  their  "noblesse"  was  indisputable.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  recognized  the  true  cold  superbness 
of  the  old  "noblesse".  They  had  not  a  single  qualm 
about  their  own  perfect  representing  of  the  higher 
order  of  being. 

Followed  another  white  satin  "marquise",  with  a 
maid-servant.  They  are  strong  on  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury in  Cagliari.  Perhaps  it  is  the  last  bright  reality 
to  them.  The  nineteenth  hardly  counts. 

Curious  the  children  in  Cagliari.  The  poor  seem 
thoroughly  poor-bare-footed  urchins,  gay  and  wild  in 

[  105  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

the  narrow  dark  streets.  But  the  more  well-to-do 
children  are  so  fine:  so  extraordinarily  elegantly- 
dressed.  It  quite  strikes  one  of  a  heap.  Not  so  much 
the  grown-ups.  The  children.  All  the  "chic,"  all 
the  fashion,  all  the  originality  is  expended  on  the  chil- 
dren. And  with  a  great  deal  of  success.  Better  than 
Kensington  Gardens  very  often.  And  they  promen- 
ade with  Papa  and  Mama  with  such  alert  assurance, 
having  quite  brought  it  off,  their  fashionable  get-up. 
Who  would  have  expected  it? 

Oh  narrow,  dark,  and  humid  streets  going  up  to  the 
Cathedral,  like  crevices.  I  narrowly  miss  a  huge  pail 
of  slop-water  which  comes  crashing  down  from  heaven. 
A  small  boy  who  was  playing  in  the  street,  and  whose 
miss  is  not  quite  a  clean  miss,  looks  up  with  that  naive, 
impersonal  wonder  with  which  children  stare  at  a  star 
or  a  lamp-lighter. 

The  Cathedral  must  have  been  a  fine  old  pagan 
stone  fortress  once.  Now  it  has  come,  as  it  were, 
through  the  mincing  machine  of  the  ages,  and  oozed 
out  baroque  and  sausagey,  a  bit  like  the  horrible  balda- 
chins in  St.  Peter's  at  Rome.  None  the  less  it  is 
homely  and  hole-and-cornery,  with  a  rather  ragged 
high  mass  trailing  across  the  pavement  towards  the 
high  altar,  since  it  is  almost  sunset,  and  Epiphany. 

[  106  ] 


CAGLIARI 

It  feels  as  if  one  might  squat  in  a  corner  and  play 
marbles  and  eat  bread  and  cheese  and  be  at  home:  a 
comfortable  old-time  churchey  feel. 

There  is  some  striking  filet  lace  on  the  various  altar- 
cloths.  And  St.  Joseph  must  be  a  prime  saint.  He 
has  an  altar  and  a  verse  of  invocation  praying  for  the 
dying. 

"Oh,  St.  Joseph,  true  potential  father  of  Our  Lord." 
What  can  it  profit  a  man,  I  wonder,  to  be  the  potential 
father  of  anybody!  For  the  rest  I  am  not  Baedeker. 

The  top  of  Cagliari  is  the  fortress:  the  old  gate, 
the  old  ramparts,  of  honey-combed,  fine  yellowish 
sandstone.  Up  in  a  great  sweep  goes  the  rampart  wall, 
Spanish  and  splendid,  dizzy.  And  the  road  creeping 
down  again  at  the  foot,  down  the  back  of  the  hill. 
There  lies  the  country:  that  dead  plain  with  its  bunch 
of  palms  and  a  fainting  sea,  and  inland  again,  hills. 
Cagliari  must  be  on  a  single,  loose,  lost  bluff  of  rock. 

From  the  terrace  just  below  the  fortress,  above  the 
town,  not  behind  it,  we  stand  and  look  at  the  sunset. 
It  is  all  terrible,  taking  place  beyond  the  knotted,  ser- 
pent-crested hills  that  lie,  bluey  and  velvety,  beyond 
the  waste  lagoons.  Dark,  sultry,  heavy  crimson  the 
west  is,  hanging  sinisterly,  with  those  gloomy  blue 
cloud-bars  and  cloud-banks  drawn  across.  All  behind 

[  107  i 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

the  blue-gloomy  peaks  stretches  the  curtain  of  sinister, 
smouldering  red,  and  away  to  the  sea.  Deep  below 
lie  the  sea-meres.  They  seem  miles  and  miles,  and 
utterly  waste.  But  the  sand-bar  crosses  like  a  bridge, 
and  has  a  road.  All  the  air  is  dark,  a  sombre  bluish 
tone.  The  great  west  burns  inwardly,  sullenly,  and 
gives  no  glow,  yet  a  deep  red.  It  is  cold. 

We  go  down  the  steep  streets,  smelly,  dark,  dank, 
and  very  cold.  No  wheeled  vehicle  can  scramble  up 
them,  persumably.  People  live  in  one  room.  Men 
are  combing  their  hair  or  fastening  their  collars  in 
the  doorways.  Evening  is  here,  and  it  is  a  feast  day. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  street  we  come  to  a  little  bunch 
of  masked  youths,  one  in  a  long  yellow  frock  and  a 
frilled  bonnet,  another  like  an  old  woman,  another  in 
red  twill.  They  are  arm  in  arm  and  are  accosting  the 
passers-by.  The  q-b  gives  a  cry,  and  looks  for  escape. 
She  has  a  terror  of  maskers,  a  terror  that  comes  from 
childhood.  To  say  the  truth,  so  have  I.  We  hasten 
invisibly  down  the  far  side  of  the  street,  and  come  out 
under  the  bastions.  Then  we  go  down  our  own  famil- 
iar wide,  short,  cold  boulevard  to  the  sea. 

At  the  bottom,  again,  is  a  carriage  with  more  mask- 
ers. Carnival  is  beginning.  A  man  dressed  as  a 
peasant  woman  in  native  costume  is  clambering  with 

[  108  ] 


CAGLIARI 

his  great  wide  skirts  and  wide  strides  on  to  the  box, 
and,  flourishing  his  ribboned  whip,  is  addressing  a 
little  crowd  of  listeners.  He  opens  his  mouth  wide 
and  goes  on  with  a  long  yelling  harangue  of  taking 
a  drive  with  his  mother — another  man  in  old-woman's 
gaudy  finery  and  wig  who  sits  already  bobbing  on  the 
box.  The  would-be  daughter  flourishes,  yells,  and 
prances  up  there  on  the  box  of  the  carriage.  The 
crowd  listens  attentively  and  mildly  smiles.  It  all 
seems  real  to  them.  The  q-b  hovers  in  the  distance, 
half-fascinated,  and  watches.  With  a  great  flourish 
of  whip  and  legs — showing  his  frilled  drawers — the 
masker  pulls  round  to  drive  along  the  boulevard  by 
the  sea — the  only  place  where  one  can  drive. 

The  big  street  by  the  sea  is  the  Via  Roma.  It  has 
the  cafes  on  one  side  and  across  the  road  the  thick 
tufts  of  trees  intervening  between  the  sea  and  us. 
Among  these  thick  tufts  of  sea-front  trees  the  little 
steam  tram,  like  a  little  train,  bumps  to  rest,  after 
having  wound  round  the  back  of  the  town. 

The  Via  Roma  is  all  social  Cagliari.  Including  the 
cafes  with  their  outdoor  tables  on  the  one  side  of  the 
road,  and  the  avenue  strand  on  the  other,  it  is  very 
wide,  and  at  evening  it  contains  the  whole  town.  Here, 
and  here  alone  carriages  can  spank  along,  very  slowly, 

[  109  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

officers  can  ride,  and  the  people  can  promenade  "en 


masse." 


We  were  amazed  at  the  sudden  crowd  we  found 
ourselves  amongst — like  a  short,  dense  river  of  people 
streaming  slowly  in  a  mass.  There  is  practically  no 
vehicular  traffic — only  the  steady  dense  streams  of  hu- 
man beings  of  all  sorts,  all  on  a  human  footing.  It 
must  have  been  something  like  this  in  the  streets  of 
imperial  Rome,  where  no  chariots  might  drive  and 
humanity  was  all  on  foot. 

Little  bunches  of  maskers,  and  single  maskers 
danced  and  strutted  along  in  the  thick  flow  under  the 
trees.  If  you  are  a  mask  you  don't  walk  like  a  human 
being:  you  dance  and  prance  along  extraordinarily 
like  the  life-size  marionettes,  conducted  by  wires  from 
above.  That  is  how  you  go:  with  that  odd  jauntiness 
as  if  lifted  and  propelled  by  wires  from  the  shoulders. 
In  front  of  me  went  a  charming  coloured  harlequin, 
all  in  diamond-shaped  colours,  and  beautiful  as  a 
piece  of  china.  He  tripped  with  the  light,  fantastic 
trip,  quite  alone  in  the  thick  crowd,  and  quite  blithe. 
Came  two  little  children  hand  in  hand  in  brilliant 
scarlet  and  white  costumes,  sauntering  calmly.  They 
did  not  do  the  mask  trip.  After  a  while  a  sky-blue 
girl  with  a  high  hat  and  full  skirts,  very  short,  that 
went  flip-flip-flip,  as  a  ballet  dancer's,  whilst  she  strut- 

[  no] 


CAGLIARI 

tedj  after  her  a  Spanish  grandee  capering  like  a 
monkey.  They  threaded  among  the  slow  stream  of 
the  crowd.  Appeared  Dante  and  Beatrice,  in  Para- 
dise apparently,  all  in  white  sheet-robes,  and  with  sil- 
ver wreaths  on  their  heads,  arm  in  arm,  and  prancing 
very  slowly  and  majestically,  yet  with  the  long  lilt 
as  if  hitched  along  by  wires  from  above.  They  were 
very  good:  all  the  well-known  vision  come  to  life, 
Dante  incorporate,  and  white  as  a  shroud,  with  his 
tow-haired,  silver-crowned,  immortal  Beatrice  on  his 
arm,  strutting  the  dark  avenues.  He  had  the  nose 
and  cheek-bones  and  banded  cheek,  and  the  stupid 
wooden  look,  and  offered  a  modern  criticism  on  the 
Inferno. 

It  had  become  quite  dark,  the  lamps  were  lighted. 
We  crossed  the  road  to  the  Cafe  Roma,  and  found  a 
table  on  the  pavement  among  the  crowd.  In  a 
moment  we  had  our  tea.  The  evening  was  cold, 
with  ice  in  the  wind.  But  the  crowd  surged  on, 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  slowly.  At  the 
tables  were  seated  mostly  men,  taking  coffee  or 
vermouth  or  aqua  vitae,  all  familiar  and  easy, 
without  the  modern  self-consciousness.  There  was 
a  certain  pleasant,  natural  robustness  of  spirit,  and 
something  of  a  feudal  free-and-easiness.  Then  ar- 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

rived  a  family,  with  children,  and  nurse  in  her  native 
costume.  They  all  sat  at  table  together,  perfectly 
easy  with  one  another,  though  the  marvellous  nurse 
seemed  to  be  seated  below  the  salt.  She  was  bright 
as  a  poppy,  in  a  rose-scarlet  dress  of  fine  cloth,  with 
a  curious  little  waistcoat  of  emerald  green  and  purple, 
and  a  bodice  of  soft,  homespun  linen  with  great  full 
sleeves.  On  her  head  she  had  a  rose-scarlet  and 
white  head-dress,  and  she  wore  great  studs  of  gold 
filigree,  and  similar  ear-rings.  The  feudal-bourgeois 
family  drank  its  syrup-drinks  and  watched  the  crowd. 
Most  remarkable  is  the  complete  absence  of  self- 
consciousness.  They  all  have  a  perfect  natural  "sang- 
froid," the  nurse  in  her  marvellous  native  costume 
is  as  thoroughly  at  her  ease  as  if  she  were  in  her  own 
village  street.  She  moves  and  speaks  and  calls  to  a 
passer-by  without  the  slightest  constraint,  and  much 
more,  without  the  slightest  persumption.  She  is  be- 
low the  invisible  salt,  the  invisible  but  insuperable 
salt.  And  it  strikes  me  the  salt-barrier  is  a  fine  thing 
for  both  parties:  they  both  remain  natural  and  human 
on  either  side  of  it,  instead  of  becoming  devilish, 
scrambling  and  pushing  at  the  barricade. 

The  crowd  is  across  the  road,  under  the  trees  near 
the  sea.     On  this  side  stroll  occasional  pedestrians. 


CAGLIARI 

And  I  see  my  first  peasant  in  costume.  He  is  an 
elderly,  upright,  handsome  man,  beautiful  in  the  black- 
and-white  costume.  He  wears  the  full-sleeved  white 
shirt  and  the  close  black  bodice  of  thick,  native  frieze, 
cut  low.  From  this  sticks  out  a  short  kilt  or  frill,  of 
the  same  black  frieze,  a  band  of  which  goes  between 
the  legs,  between  the  full  loose  drawers  of  coarse 
linen.  The  drawers  are  banded  below  the  knee  into 
tight  black  frieze  gaiters.  On  his  head  he  has  the  long 
black  stocking  cap,  hanging  down  behind.  How  hand- 
some he  is,  and  so  beautifully  male!  He  walks  with 
his  hands  loose  behind  his  back,  slowly,  upright,  and 
aloof.  The  lovely  unapproachableness,  indomitable. 
And  the  flash  of  the  black  and  white,  the  slow  stride 
of  the  full  white  drawers,  the  black  gaiters  and  black 
cuirass  with  the  bolero,  then  the  great  white  sleeves 
and  white  breast  again,  and  once  more  the  black  cap — 
what  marvellous  massing  of  the  contrast,  marvellous, 
and  superb,  as  on  a  magpie. — How  beautiful  maleness 
is,  if  it  finds  its  right  expression. — And  how  perfectly 
ridiculous  it  is  made  in  modern  clothes. 

There  is  another  peasant  too,  a  young  one  with  a 
swift  eye  and  hard  cheek  and  hard,  dangerous  thighs. 
He  has  folded  his  stocking  cap,  so  that  it  comes  forward 
to  his  brow  like  a  phrygian  cap.  He  wears  close  knee 
breeches  and  close  sleeved  waistcoat  of  thick  brownish 

[  "3  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

stuff  that  looks  like  leather.  Over  the  waistcoat  a 
sort  of  cuirass  of  black,  rusty  sheepskin,  the  curly 
wool  outside.  So  he  strides,  talking  to  a  comrade. 
How  fascinating  it  is,  after  the  soft  Italians,  to  see 
these  limbs  in  their  close  knee-breeches,  so  definite,  so 
manly,  with  the  old  fierceness  in  them  still.  One  re- 
alises, with  horror,  that  the  race  of  men  is  almost  ex- 
tinct in  Europe.  Only  Christ-like  heroes  and  woman- 
worshipping  Don  Juans,  and  rabid  equality-mongrels. 
The  old,  hardy,  indomitable  male  is  gone.  His  fierce 
singleness  is  quenched.  The  last  sparks  are  dying  out  in 
Sardinia  and  Spain.  Nothing  left  but  the  herd-pro- 
letariat and  the  herd-equality  mongrelism,  and  the 
wistful  poisonous  self -sacrificial  cultured  soul.  How 
detestable. 

But  that  curious,  flashing,  black-and-white  costume! 
I  seem  to  have  known  it  before:  to  have  worn  it  even: 
to  have  dreamed  it.  To  have  dreamed  it:  to  have 
had  actual  contact  with  it.  It  belongs  in  some  way 
to  something  in  me — to  my  past,  perhaps.  I  don't 
know.  But  the  uneasy  sense  of  blood-familiarity 
haunts  me.  I  know  I  have  known  it  before.  It  is 
something  of  the  same  uneasiness  I  feel  before  Mount 
Eryx:  but  without  the  awe  this  time. 

In  the  morning  the  sun  was  shining  from  a  blue, 

i 


CAGLIARI 

blue  sky,  but  the  shadows  were  deadly  cold,  and  the 
wind  like  a  flat  blade  of  ice.  We  went  out  running  to 
the  sun.  The  hotel  could  not  give  us  coffee  and  milk: 
only  a  little  black  coffee.  So  we  descended  to  the  sea- 
front  again,  to  the  Via  Roma,  and  to  our  cafe.  It 
was  Friday:  people  seemed  to  be  bustling  in  from  the 
country  with  huge  baskets. 

The  Cafe  Roma  had  coffee  and  milk,  but  no  butter. 
We  sat  and  watched  the  movement  outside.  Tiny 
Sardinian  donkeys,  the  tiniest  things  ever  seen,  trotted 
their  infinitesimal  little  paws  along  the  road,  drawing 
little  wagons  like  handcarts.  Their  proportion  is  so 
small,  that  they  make  a  boy  walking  at  their  side  look 
like  a  tall  man,  while  a  natural  man  looks  like  a  Cyclops 
stalking  hugely  and  cruelly.  It  is  ridiculous  for  a 
grown  man  to  have  one  of  these  little  creatures,  hardly 
bigger  than  a  fly,  hauling  his  load  for  him.  One  is 
pulling  a  chest  of  drawers  on  a  cart,  and  it  seems  to 
have  a  whole  house  behind  it.  Nevertheless  it  plods 
bravely,  away  beneath  the  load,  a  wee  thing. 

They  tell  me  there  used  to  be  flocks  of  these  don- 
keys, feeding  half  wild  on  the  wild,  moor-like  hills 
of  Sardinia.  But  the  war — and  also  the  imbecile 
wantonness  of  the  war-masters — consumed  these  flocks 
too,  so  that  few  are  left.  The  same  with  the  cattle. 
Sardinia,  home  of  cattle,  hilly  little  Argentine  of  the 

[  "5  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Mediterranean,  is  now  almost  deserted.  It  is  war, 
say  the  Italiana. — And  also  the  wanton,  imbecile, 
foul  lavishness  of  the  war-masters.  It  was  not 
alone  the  war  which  exhausted  the  world.  It  was 
the  deliberate  evil  wastefulness  of  the  war-makers  in 
their  own  countries.  Italy  ruined  Italy. 

Two  peasants  in  black-and-white  are  strolling  in  the 
sun,  flashing.  And  my  dream  of  last  evening  was  not 
a  dream.  And  my  nostalgia  for  something  I  know 
not  what  was  not  an  illusion.  I  feel  it  again,  at  once, 
at  the  sight  of  the  men  in  frieze  and  linen,  a  heart 
yearning  for  something  I  have  known,  and  which  I 
want  back  again. 

It  is  market  day.  We  turn  up  the  Largo  Carlo- 
Felice,  the  second  wide  gap  of  a  street,  a  vast  but 
very  short  boulevard,  like  the  end  of  something. 
Cagliari  is  like  that:  all  bits  and  bobs.  And  by  the 
side  of  the  pavement  are  many  stalls,  stalls  selling 
combs  and  collar-studs,  cheap  mirrors,  handkerchiefs, 
shoddy  Manchester  goods,  bed-ticking,  boot-paste, 
poor  crockery,  and  so  on.  But  we  see  also  Madame 
of  Cagliari  going  marketing,  with  a  servant  accom- 
panying her,  carrying  a  huge  grass-woven  basket:  or 
returning  from  marketing,  followed  by  a  small  boy 

[  "6  ] 


CAGLIARI 

supporting  one  of  these  huge  grass-woven  baskets — 
like  huge  dishes — on  his  head,  piled  with  bread,  eggs, 
vegetables,  a  chicken,  and  so  forth.  Therefore  we 
follow  Madame  going  marketing,  and  find  ourselves 
in  the  vast  market  house,  and  it  fairly  glows  with  eggs: 
eggs  in  these  great  round  dish-baskets  of  golden  grass: 
but  eggs  in  piles,  in  mounds,  in  heaps,  a  Sierra  Nevada 
of  eggs,  glowing  warm  white.  How  they  glow!  I 
have  never  noticed  it  before.  But  they  give  off  a 
warm,  pearly  effulgence  into  the  air,  almost  a  warmth. 
A  pearly-gold  heat  seems  to  come  out  of  them. 
Myriads  of  eggs,  glowing  avenues  of  eggs. 

And  they  are  marked — 60  centimes,  65  centimes. 
Ah,  cries  the  q-b,  I  must  live  in  Cagliari — For  in  Sicily 
the  eggs  cost  1.50  each. 

This  is  the  meat  and  poultry  and  bread  market. 
There  are  stalls  of  new,  various-shaped  bread,  brown 
and  bright:  there  are  tiny  stalls  of  marvellous  native 
cakes,  which  I  want  to  taste,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
meat  and  kid:  and  there  are  stalls  of  cheese,  all  cheeses, 
all  shapes,  all  whitenesses,  all  the  cream-colours,  on 
into  daffodil  yellow.  Goat  cheese,  sheeps  cheese,  Swiss 
cheese,  Parmegiano,  stracchino,  caciocavallo,  torolone, 
how  many  cheeses  I  don't  know  the  names  of!  But 
they  cost  about  the  same  as  in  Sicily,  eighteen  francs, 
twenty  francs,  twenty-five  francs  the  kilo.  And  there  is 

[  "7  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

lovely  ham — thirty  and  thirty-five  francs  the  kilo. 
There  is  a  little  fresh  butter  too — thirty  or  thirty-two 
francs  the  kilo.  Most  of  the  butter,  however,  is 
tinned  in  Milan.  It  costs  the  same  as  the  fresh. 
There  are  splendid  piles  of  salted  black  olives,  and 
huge  bowls  of  green  salted  olives.  There  are  chickens 
and  ducks  and  wild-fowl:  at  eleven  and  twelve  and 
fourteen  francs  a  kilo.  There  is  mortadella,  the  enor- 
mous Bologna  sausage,  thick  as  a  church  pillar:  16 
francs:  and  there  are  various  sorts  of  smaller  sausage, 
salami,  to  be  eaten  in  slices.  A  wonderful  abundance 
of  food,  glowing  and  shining.  We  are  rather  late 
for  fish,  especially  on  Friday.  But  a  barefooted  man 
offers  us  two  weird  objects  from  the  Mediterranean, 
which  teems  with  marine  monsters. 

The  peasant  women  sit  behind  their  wares,  their 
home-woven  linen  skirts,  hugely  full,  and  of  various 
colours,  ballooning  round  them.  The  yellow  baskets 
give  off  a  glow  of  light.  There  is  a  sense  of  profusion 
once  more.^  But  alas  no  sense  of  cheapness:  save  the 
eggs.  Every  month,  up  goes  the  price  of  everything. 

"I  must  come  and  live  in  Cagliari,  to  do  my  shop- 
ping here,"  says  the  q-b.  "I  must  have  one  of  those 
big  grass  baskets." 

We  went  down  to  the  little  street — but  saw  more 
baskets  emerging  from  a  broad  flight  of  stone  stairs, 

[  "8  ] 


CAGLIARI 

enclosed.  So  up  we  went — and  found  ourselves  in 
the  vegetable  market.  Here  the  q-b  was  happier  still. 
Peasant  women,  sometimes  barefoot,  sat  in  their  tight 
little  bodices  and  voluminous,  coloured  skirts  behind 
the  piles  of  vegetables,  and  never  have  I  seen  a  love- 
lier show.  The  intense  deep  green  of  spinach  seemed 
to  predominate,  and  out  of  that  came  the  monuments 
of  curd-white  and  black-purple  cauliflowers:  but  mar- 
vellous cauliflowers,  like  a  flower-show,  the  purple 
ones  intense  as  great  bunches  of  violets.  From  this 
green,  white,  and  purple  massing  struck  out  the  vivid 
rose-scarlet  and  blue  crimson  of  radishes,  large  radishes 
like  little  turnips,  in  piles.  Then  the  long,  slim,  grey- 
purple  buds  of  artichokes,  and  dangling  clusters  of 
dates,  and  piles  of  sugar-dusty  white  figs  and  sombre- 
looking  black  figs,  and  bright  burnt  figs:  basketfuls 
and  basketfuls  of  figs.  A  few  baskets  of  almonds, 
and  many  huge  walnuts.  Basket-pans  of  native  rais- 
ins. Scarlet  peppers  like  trumpets:  magnificient  fen- 
nels, so  white  and  big  and  succulent:  baskets  of  new 
potatoes:  scaly  kohlrabi:  wild  asparagus  in  bunches, 
yellow-budding  sparacelli:  big,  clean-fleshed  carrots: 
feathery  salads  with  white  hearts:  long,  brown-purple 
onions  and  then,  of  course  pyramids  of  big  oranges, 
pyramids  of  pale  apples,  and  baskets  of  brilliant  shiny 
mandarini,  the  little  tangerine  oranges  with  their  green- 

[  "9  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

black  leaves.  The  green  and  vivid-coloured  world  of 
fruit-gleams  I  have  never  seen  in  such  splendour  as 
under  the  market  roof  at  Cagliari :  so  raw  and  gorgeous. 
And  all  quite  cheap,  the  one  remaining  cheapness,  ex- 
cept potatoes.  Potatoes  of  any  sort  are  1.40  or  1.50 
the  kilo. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  q-b,  "If  I  don't  live  at  Cagliari 
and  come  and  do  my  shopping  here,  I  shall  die  with 
one  of  my  wishes  unfulfilled." 

But  out  of  the  sun  it  was  cold,  nevertheless.  We 
went  into  the  streets  to  try  and  get  warm.  The  sun 
was  powerful.  But  alas,  as  in  southern  towns  gener- 
ally, the  streets  are  sunless  as  wells. 

So  the  q-b  and  I  creep  slowly  along  the  sunny  bits, 
and  then  perforce  are  swallowed  by  shadow.  We  look 
at  the  shops.  But  there  is  not  much  to  see.  Little> 
frowsy  provincial  shops,  on  the  whole. 

But  a  fair  number  of  peasants  in  the  streets,  and 
peasant  women  in  rather  ordinary  costume:  tight- 
bodiced,  volume-skirted  dresses  of  hand-woven  linen 
or  thickish  cotton.  The  prettiest  is  of  dark-blue-and- 
red,  stripes-and-lines,  intermingled,  so  made  that  the 
dark-blue  gathers  round  the  waist  into  one  colour,  the 
myriad  pleats  hiding  all  the  rosy  red.  But  when  she 
walks,  the  full-petticoated  peasant  woman,  then  the 

[  120  ] 


CAGLIARI 

red  goes  flash-flash-flash,  like  a  bird  showing  its  colours. 
Pretty  that  looks  in  the  sombre  street.  She  has  a 
plain,  light  bodice  with  a  peak:  sometimes  a  little  vest, 
and  great  full  white  sleeves,  and  usually  a  handker- 
chief or  shawl  loose  knotted.  It  is  charming  the  way 
they  walk,  with  quick,  short  steps.  When  all  is  said 
and  done,  the  most  attractive  costume  for  women  in 
my  eye,  is  the  tight  little  bodice  and  the  many-pleated 
skirt,  full  and  vibrating  with  movement.  It  has  a 
charm  which  modern  elegance  lacks  completely — a 
bird-like  play  in  movement. 

They  are  amusing,  these  peasant  girls  and  women: 
so  brisk  and  defiant.  They  have  straight  backs,  like 
little  walls,  and  decided,  well-drawn  brows.  And 
they  are  amusingly  on  the  alert.  There  is  no  eastern 
creeping.  Like  sharp,  brisk  birds  they  dart  along  the 
streets,  and  you  feel  they  would  fetch  you  a  bang 
over  the  head  as  leave  as  look  at  you.  Tenderness, 
thank  heaven,  does  not  seem  to  be  a  Sardinian  quality. 
Italy  is  so  tender — like  cooked  macaroni — yards  and 
yards  of  soft  tenderness  ravelled  round  everything. 
Here  men  don't  idealise  women,  by  the  looks  of  things. 
Here  they  don't  make  these  great  leering  eyes,  the 
inevitable  yours-to-command  look  of  Italian  males. 
When  the  men  from  the  country  look  at  these  women, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

then  it  is  Mind-yourself,  my  lady.  I  should  think 
the  grovelling  Madonna-worship  is  not  much  of  a 
Sardinian  feature.  These  women  have  to  look  out  for 
themselves,  keep  their  own  back-bone  stiff  and  their 
knuckles  hard.  Man  is  going  to  be  male  Lord  if  he 
can.  And  woman  isn't  going  to  give  him  too  much 
of  his  own  way,  either.  So  there  you  have  it,  the 
fine  old  martial  split  between  the  sexes.  It  is  tonic 
and  splendid,  really,  after  so  much  sticky  interming- 
ling and  backboneless  Madonna-worship.  The  Sar- 
dinian isn't  looking  for  the  "noble  woman  nobly 
planned."  No,  thank  you.  He  wants  that  young 
madam  over  there,  a  young  stiff-necked  generation 
that  she  is.  Far  better  sport  than  with  the  nobly- 
planned  sort :  hollow  frauds  that  they  are.  Better  sport 
too  than  with  a  Carmen,  who  gives  herself  away  too 
much.  In  these  women  there  is  something  shy  and 
defiant  and  un-get-atable.  The  defiant,  splendid  split 
between  the  sexes,  each  absolutely  determined  to  de- 
fend his  side,  her  side,  from  assault.  So  the  meeting 
has  a  certain  wild,  salty  savour,  each  the  deadly 
unknown  to  the  other.  And  at  the  same  time,  each 
his  own,  her  own  native  pride  and  courage,  taking 
the  dangerous  leap  and  scrambling  back. 

Give  me  the  old,  salty  way  of  love.     How  I  am 
[   122  ] 


CAGLIARI 

nauseated  with  sentiment  and  nobility,  the  macaroni 
slithery-slobbery  mess  of  modern  adorations. 

One  sees  a  few  fascinating  faces  in  Cagliari:  those 
great  dark  unlighted  eyes.  There  are  fascinating  dark 
eyes  in  Sicily,  bright,  big,  with  an  impudent  point  of 
light,  and  a  curious  roll,  and  long  lashes:  the  eyes  of 
old  Greece,  surely.  But  here  one  sees  eyes  of  soft, 
blank  darkness,  all  velvet,  with  no  imp  looking  out 
of  them.  And  they  strike  a  stranger,  older  note:  be- 
fore the  soul  became  self-conscious:  before  the  men- 
tality of  Greece  appeared  in  the  world.  Remote,  al- 
ways remote,  as  if  the  intelligence  lay  deep  within  the 
cave,  and  never  came  forward.  One  searches  into 
the  gloom  for  one  second,  while  the  glance  lasts.  But 
without  being  able  to  penetrate  to  the  reality.  It  re- 
cedes, like  some  unknown  creature  deeper  into  its  lair. 
There  is  a  creature,  dark  and  potent.  But  what? 

Sometimes  Velasquez,  and  sometimes  Goya  gives  us 
a  suggestion  of  these  large,  dark,  unlighted  eyes.  And 
they  go  with  fine,  fleecy  black  hair — almost  as  fine  as 
fur.  I  have  not  seen  them. north  of  Cagliari. 

The  q-b  spies  some  of  the  blue-and-red  stripe-and- 
line  cotton  stuff  of  which  the  peasants  make  their  dress: 
a  large  roll  in  the  doorway  of  a  dark  shop.  In  we 

[  123 1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

go,  and  begin  to  feel  it.  It  is  just  soft,  thickish  cotton 
stuff — twelve  francs  a  metre.  Like  most  peasant  pat- 
terns, it  is  much  more  complicated  and  subtle  than  ap- 
pears: the  curious  placing  of  the  stripes,  the  subtle 
proportion,  and  a  white  thread  left  down  one  side  only 
of  each  broad  blue  block.  The  stripes,  moreover,  run 
across  the  cloth,  not  lengthwise  with  it.  But  the 
width  would  be  just  long  enough  for  a  skirt — though 
the  peasant  skirts  have  almost  all  a  band  at  the  bottom 
with  the  stripes  running  round-ways. 

The  man — he  is  the  esquimo  type,  simple,  frank 
and  aimiable — says  the  stuff  is  made  in  France,  and  this 
the  first  roll  since  the  war.  It  is  the  old,  old  pattern, 
quite  correct — but  the  material  not  quite  so  good. 
The  q-b  takes  enough  for  a  dress. 

He  shows  us  also  cashmeres,  orange,  scarlet,  sky- 
blue,  royal  blue:  good,  pure- wool  cashmeres  that  were 
being  sent  to  India,  and  were  captured  from  a  German 
mercantile  sub-marine.  So  he  says.  Fifty  francs  a 
metre — very,  very  wide.  But  they  are  too  much 
trouble  to  carry  in  a  knapsack,  though  their  brilliance 
fascinates. 

So  we  stroll  and  look  at  the  shops,  at  the  filigree 
gold  jewelling  of  the  peasants,  at  a  good  bookshop. 
But  there  is  little  to  see  and  therefore  the  question  is; 
shall  we  go  on?     Shall  we  go  forward? 

[  124  ] 


CAGLIARI 

There  are  two  ways  of  leaving  Cagliari  for  the 
north:  the  State  railway  that  runs  up  the  west  side  of 
the  island,  and  the  narrow-gauge  secondary  railway 
that  pierces  the  centre.  But  we  are  too  late  for  the 
big  trains.  So  we  will  go  by  the  secondary  railway, 
wherever  it  goes. 

There  is  a  train  at  2.30,  and  we  can  get  as  far  as 
Mandas,  some  fifty  miles  in  the  interior.  When  we  tell 
the  queer  little  waiter  at  the  hotel,  he  says  he  comes 
from  Mandas,  and  there  are  two  inns.  So  after 
lunch — a  strictly  fish  menu — we  pay  our  bill.  It 
comes  to  sixty  odd  francs — for  three  good  meals  each, 
with  wine,  and  the  night's  lodging,  this  is  cheap,  as 
prices  now  are  in  Italy. 

Pleased  with  the  simple  and  friendly  Scala  di  Ferre, 
I  shoulder  my  sack  and  we  walk  off  to  the  second  sta- 
tion. The  sun  is  shining  hot  this  afternoon — burning 
hot,  by  the  sea.  The  road  and  the  buildings  look  dry 
and  desiccated,  the  harbour  rather  weary  and  end  of 
the  world. 

There  is  a  great  crowd  of  peasants  at  the  little 
station.  And  almost  every  man  has  a  pair  of  woven 
saddle-bags — a  great  flat  strip  of  coarse-woven  wool, 
with  flat  pockets  at  either  end,  stuffed  with  purchases. 
These  are  almost  the  only  carrying  bags.  The  men 

[  125  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

sling  them  over  their  shoulder,  so  that  one  great  pocket 
hangs  in  front,  one  behind. 

These  saddle  bags  are  most  fascinating.  They  are 
coarsely  woven  in  bands  of  raw  black-rusty  wool,  with 
varying  bands  of  raw  white  wool  or  hemp  or  cotton — 
the  bands  and  stripes  of  varying  widths  going  cross- 
wise. And  on  the  pale  bands  are  woven  sometimes 
flowers  in  most  lovely  colours,  rose-red  and  blue  and 
green,  peasant  patterns — and  sometimes  fantastic  ani- 
mals, beasts,  in  dark  wool  again.  So  that  these  striped 
zebra  bags,  some  wonderful  gay  with  flowery  colours 
on  their  stripes,  some  weird  with  fantastic,  griflin- 
like  animals,  are  a  whole  landscape  in  themselves. 

The  train  has  only  first  and  third  class.  It  costs 
about  thirty  francs  for  the  two  of  us,  third  class  to 
Mandas,  which  is  some  sixty  miles.  In  we  crowd  with 
the  joyful  saddlebags,  into  the  wooden  carriage  with 
its  many  seats. 

And,  wonder  of  wonders,  punctually  to  the  second, 
off  we  go,  out  of  Cagliari.  En  route  again. 


[  126 


IV. 

MANDAS. 


THE  coach  was  fairly  full  of  people,  returning 
from  market.     On  these  railways  the  third 
-^j^duioD  o;ut  pspiAip  ;ou  SJ-E  ssip^OD  ss-ep 
ments.     They  are  left  open,  so  that  one  sees  every- 
body, as  down  a  room.     The  attractive  saddlebags, 
bercoley  were  disposed  anywhere,  and  the  bulk  of  the 
people  settled  down  to  a  lively  conversazione.     It  is 
much  nicest,  on  the  whole,  to  travel  third  class  on  the 
railway.     There  is  space,  there  is  air,  and  it  is  like 
being  in  a  lively  inn,  everybody  in  good  spirits. 

At  our  end  was  plenty  of  room.  Just  across  the 
gangway  was  an  elderly  couple,  like  two  children,  com- 
ing home  very  happily.  He  was  fat,  fat  all  over, 
with  a  white  moustache  and  a  little  not-unamiable 
frown.  She  was  a  tall  lean,  brown  woman,  in  a  brown 
full-skirted  dress  and  black  apron,  with  huge  pocket. 
She  wore  no  head  covering,  and  her  iron  grey  hair 
was  parted  smoothly.  They  were  rather  pleased  and 
excited  being  in  the  train.  She  took  all  her  money 

[  1*7  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

out  of  her  big  pocket,  and  counted  it  and  gave  it  to 
him:  all  the  ten  Lira  notes,  and  the  five  Lira  and  the 
two  and  the  one,  peering  at  the  dirty  scraps  of  pink- 
backed  one-lira  notes  to  see  if  they  were  good.  Then 
she  gave  him  her  half-pennies.  And  he  stowed  them 
away  in  the  trouser  pocket,  standing  up  to  push  them 
down  his  fat  leg.  And  then  one  saw,  to  one's  amaze- 
ment, that  the  whole  of  his  shirt-tail  was  left  out  be- 
hind, like  a  sort  of  apron  worn  backwards.  Why — 
a  mystery.  He  was  one  of  those  fat,  good-natured, 
unheeding  men  with  a  little  masterful  frown,  such  as 
usually  have  tall,  lean,  hard-faced,  obedient  wives. 

They  were  very  happy.  With  amazement  he 
watched  us  taking  hot  tea  from  the  Thermos  flask. 
I  think  he  too  had  suspected  it  might  be  a  bomb.  He 
had  blue  eyes  and  standing-up  white  eyebrows. 

"Beautiful  hot — !"  he  said,  seeing  the  tea  steam. 
It  is  the  inevitable  exclamation.  "Does  it  do  you 
good?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  q-b.  "Much  good."  And  they 
both  nodded  complacently.  They  were  going  home. 

The  train  was  running  over  the  malarial-looking 
sea-plain — past  the  down-at-heel  palm  trees,  past  the 
mosque-looking  buildings.  At  a  level  crossing  the 
woman  crossing-keeper  darted  out  vigorously  with  her 

[   128  ] 


MANDAS 

red  flag.  And  we  rambled  into  the  first  village.  It 
was  built  of  sun-dried  brick-adobe  houses,  thick  adobe 
garden-walls,  with  tile  ridges  to  keep  off  the  rain. 
In  the  enclosures  were  dark  orange  trees.  But  the 
clay-coloured  villages,  clay-dry,  looked  foreign:  the 
next  thing  to  mere  earth  they  seem,  like  fox-holes  or 
coyote  colonies. 

Looking  back,  one  sees  Cagliari  bluff  on  her  rock, 
rather  fine,  with  the  thin  edge  of  the  sea's  blade  curv- 
ing round.  It  is  rather  hard  to  believe  in  the  real  sea, 
on  this  sort  of  clay-pale  plain. 

But  soon  we  begin  to  climb  to  the  hills.  And  soon 
the  cultivation  begins  to  be  intermittent.  Extraordin- 
ary how  the  heathy,  moor-like  hills  come  near  the  sea: 
extraordinary  how  scrubby  and  uninhabited  the  great 
spaces  of  Sardinia  are.  It  is  wild,  with  heath  and 
arbutus  scrub  and  a  sort  of  myrtle,  breast-high.  Some- 
times one  sees  a  few  head  of  cattle.  And  then  again 
come  the  greyish  arable-patches,  where  the  corn  is 
grown.  It  is  like  Cornwall,  like  the  Land's  End  re- 
gion. Here  and  there,  in  the  distance,  are  peasants 
working  on  the  lonely  landscape.  Sometimes  it  is  one 
man  alone  in  the  distance,  showing  so  vividly  in  his 
black-and-white  costume,  small  and  far-off  like  a  soli- 
tary magpie,  and  curioulsy  distinct.  All  the  strange 

[    129   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

magic  of  Sardinia  is  in  this  sight.  Among  the  low, 
moor-like  hills,  away  in  a  hollow  of  the  wide  landscape 
one  solitary  figure,  small  but  vivid  black-and-white, 
working  alone,  as  if  eternally.  There  are  patches  and 
hollows  of  grey  arable  land,  good  for  corn.  Sardinia 
was  once  a  great  granary. 

Usually,  however,  the  peasants  of  the  South  have 
left  off  the  costume.  Usually  it  is  the  invisible  soldiers' 
grey-green  cloth,  the  Italian  khaki.  Wherever  you  go, 
wherever  you  be,  you  see  this  khaki,  this  grey-green 
war-clothing.  How  many  millions  of  yards  of  the 
thick,  excellent,  but  hateful  material  the  Italian  gov- 
ernment must  have  provided  I  don't  know:  but  enough 
to  cover  Italy  with  a  felt  carpet,  I  should  think.  It  is 
everywhere.  It  cases  the  tiny  children  in  stiff  and 
neutral  frocks  and  coats,  it  covers  their  extinguished 
fathers,  and  sometimes  it  even  encloses  the  women  in 
its  warmth.  It  is  symbolic  of  the  universal  grey  mist 
that  has  come  over  men,  the  extinguishing  of  all  bright 
individuality,  the  blotting  out  of  all  wild  singleness. 
Oh  democracy!  Oh  khaki  democracy! 

This  is  very  different  from  Italian  landscape.  Italy 
is  almost  always  dramatic,  and  perhaps  invariably  ro- 
mantic. There  is  drama  in  the  plains  of  Lombardy, 
and  romance  in  the  Venetian  lagoons,  and  sheer  scenic 

I  130  ] 


MANDAS 

excitement  in  nearly  all  the  hilly  parts  of  the  peninsula. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  natural  floridity  of  limestone  forma- 
tions. But  Italian  landscape  is  really  eighteenth-cen- 
tury landscape,  to  be  represented  in  that  romantic- 
classic  manner  which  makes  everything  rather  marvel- 
ous and  very  topical:  aqueducts,  and  ruins  upon  sugar- 
loaf  mountains,  and  craggy  ravines  and  Wilhelm 
Meister  water-falls:  all  up  and  down. 

Sardinia  is  another  thing.  Much  wider,  much  more 
ordinary,  not  up-and-down  at  all,  but  running  away 
into  the  distance.  Unremarkable  ridges  of  moor-like 
hills  running  away,  perhaps  to  a  bunch  of  dramatic 
peaks  on  the  southwest.  This  gives  a  sense  of  space, 
which  is  so  lacking  in  Italy.  Lovely  space  about  one, 
and  traveling  distances — nothing  finished,  nothing 
final.  It  is  like  liberty  itself,  after  the  peaky  confine- 
ment of  Sicily.  Room — give,  me  room — give  me  room 
for  my  spirit:  and  you  can  have  all  the  toppling  crags 
of  romance. 

So  we  ran  on  through  the  gold  of  the  afternoon, 
across  a  wide,  almost  Celtic  landscape  of  hills,  our  lit- 
tle train  winding  and  puffing  away  very  nimbly.  Only 
the  heath  and  scrub,  breast-high,  man-high,  is  too  big 
and  brigand-like  for  a  Celtic  land.  The  horns  of 
black,  wild-looking  cattle  show  sometimes. 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

After  a  long  pull,  we  come  to  a  station  after  a  stretch 
of  loneliness.  Each  time,  it  looks  as  if  there  were 
nothing  beyond — no  more  habitations.  And  each  time 
we  come  to  a  station. 

Most  of  the  people  have  left  the  train.  And  as 
with  men  driving  in  a  gig,  who  get  down  at  every 
public-house,  so  the  passengers  usually  alight  for  an 
airing  at  each  station.  Our  old  fat  friend  stands  up  and 
tucks  his  shirt-tail  comfortably  in  his  trousers,  which 
trousers  all  the  time  make  one  hold  one's  breath,  for 
they  seem  at  each  very  moment  to  be  just  dropping 
right  down:  and  he  clambers  out,  followed  by  the  long, 
brown  stalk  of  a  wife. 

So  the  train  sits  comfortably  for  five  or  ten  minutes, 
in  the  way  the  trains  have.  At  last  we  hear  whistles 
and  horns,  and  our  old  fat  friend  running  and  clinging 
like  a  fat  crab  to  the  very  end  of  the  train  as  it  sets  off. 
At  the  same  instant  a  loud  shriek  and  a  bunch  of  shouts 
from  outside.  We  all  jump  up.  There,  down  the 
line,  is  the  long  brown  stork  of  a  wife.  She  had  just 
walked  back  to  a  house  some  hundred  yards  off,  for  a 
few  words,  and  has  now  seen  the  train  moving. 

Now  behold  her  with  her  hands  thrown  to  heaven, 
and  hear  the  wild  shriek  "Madonna!"  through  all  the 
hubbub.  But  she  picks  up  her  two  skirt-knees,  and 
with  her  thin  legs  in  grey  stockings  starts  with  a  mad 

[  132  ] 


MANDAS 

rush  after  the  train.  In  vain.  The  train  inexorably 
pursues  its  course.  Prancing,  she  reaches  one  end  of 
the  platform  as  we  leave  the  other  end.  Then  she 
realizes  it  is  not  going  to  stop  for  her.  And  then,  oh 
horror,  her  long  arms  thrown  out  in  wild  supplication 
after  the  retreating  train:  then  flung  aloft  to  God:  then 
brought  down  in  absolute  despair  on  her  head.  And 
this  is  the  last  sight  we  have  of  her,  clutching  her  poor 
head  in  agony  and  doubling  forward.  She  is  left — 
she  is  abandoned. 

The  poor  fat  husband  has  been  all  the  time  on  the 
little  outside  platform  at  the  end  of  the  carriage,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  her  and  shouting  frenzied  scolding 
to  her  and  frenzied  yells  for  the  train  to  stop.  And 
the  train  has  not  stopped.  And  she  is  left — left  on 
that  God-forsaken  station  in  the  waning  light. 

So,  his  face  all  bright,  his  eyes  round  and  bright  as 
two  stars,  absolutely  transfigured  by  dismay,  chagrin, 
anger  and  distress,  he  comes  and  sits  in  his  seat,  ablaze, 
stiff,  speechless.  His  face  is  almost  beautiful  in  its 
blaze  of  conflicting  emotions.  For  some  time  he  is  as 
if  unconscious  in  the  midst  of  his  feelings.  Then 
anger  and  resentment  crop  out  of  his  consternation. 
He  turns  with  a  flash  to  the  long-nosed,  insidious, 
Phoenician-looking  guard.  Why  couldn't  they  stop  the 
train  for  her!  And  immediately,  as  if  someone  had  set 

[  133  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

fire  to  him,  off  flares  the  guard.  Heh! — the  train 
can't  stop  for  every  person's  convenience!  The  train 
is  a  train — the  time-table  is  a  time-table.  What  did 
the  old  woman  want  to  take  her  trips  down  the  line  for? 
Heh !  She  pays  the  penalty  for  her  own  inconsiderate- 
ness.  Had  she  paid  for  the  train — heh?  And  the 
fat  man  all  the  time  firing  off  his  unheeding  and  un- 
heeded answers.  One  minute — only  one  minute — if 
he,  the  conductor  had  told  the  driver!  if  he,  the  con- 
ductor, had  shouted!  A  poor  woman!  Not  another 
train!  What  was  she  going  to  do!  Her  ticket?  And 
no  money.  A  poor  woman — 

There  was  a  train  back  to  Cagliari  that  night,  said 
the  conductor,  at  which  the  fat  man  nearly  burst  out 
of  his  clothing  like  a  bursting  seed-pod.  He  bounced 
on  his  seat.  What  good  was  that?  What  good  was 
a  train  back  to  Cagliari,  when  their  home  was  in  Snelli ! 
Making  matters  worse — 

So  they  bounced  and  jerked  and  argued  at  one 
another,  to  their  hearts'  content.  Then  the  conductor 
retired,  smiling  subtly,  in  a  way  they  have.  Our  fat 
friend  looked  at  us  with  hot,  angry,  ashamed,  grieved 
eyes  and  said  it  was  a  shame.  Yes,  we  chimed,  it  was 
a  shame.  Whereupon  a  self-important  miss  who  said 
she  came  from  some  Collegio  at  Cagliari  advanced  and 
asked  a  number  of  impertinent  questions  in  a  tone  of 

[  134  ] 


MANDAS 

pert  sympathy.  After  which  our  fat  friend,  left  alone, 
covered  his  clouded  face  with  his  hand,  turned  his  back 
on  the  world,  and  gloomed. 

It  had  all  been  so  dramatic  that  in  spite  of  ourselves 
we  laughed,  even  while  the  q-b  shed  a  few  tears. 

Well,  the  journey  lasted  hours.  We  came  to  a  sta- 
tion, and  the  conductor  said  we  must  get  out:  these 
coaches  went  no  further.  Only  two  coaches  would 
proceed  to  Mandas.  So  we  climbed  out  with  our  traps, 
and  our  fat  friend  with  his  saddle-bag,  the  picture  of 
misery. 

The  one  coach  into  which  we  clambered  was  rather 
crowded.  The  only  other  coach  was  most  of  it  first- 
class.  And  the  rest  of  the  train  was  freight.  We  were 
two  insignificant  passenger  wagons  at  the  end  of  a  long 
string  of  freight-vans  and  trucks. 

There  was  an  empty  seat,  so  we  sat  on  it:  only  to 
realize  after  about  five  minutes,  that  a  thin  old  woman 
with  two  children — her  grandchildren — was  chunter- 
ing  her  head  off  because  it  was  her  seat — why  she  had 
left  it  she  didn't  say.  And  under  my  legs  was  her  bun- 
die  of  bread.  She  nearly  went  off  her  head.  And 
over  my  head,  on  the  little  rack,  was  her  bercola,  her 
saddle-bag.  Fat  soldiers  laughed  at  her  good-natur- 
edly, but  she  fluttered  and  flipped  like  a.  tart,  feather- 

[  '3$  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

less  old  hen.  Since  she  had  another  seat  and  was 
quite  comfortable,  we  smiled  and  let  her  chunter.  So 
she  clawed  her  bread  bundle  from  under  my  legs,  and, 
clutching  it  and  a  fat  child,  sat  tense. 

It  was  getting  quite  dark.  The  conductor  came  and 
said  that  there  was  no  more  paraffin.  If  what  there 
was  in  the  lamps  gave  out,  we  should  have  to  sit  in  the 
dark.  There  was  no  more  paraffin  all  along  the  line. — 
So  he  climbed  on  the  seats,  and  after  a  long  struggle, 
with  various  boys  striking  matches  for  him,  he  man- 
aged to  obtain  a  light  as  big  as  a  pea.  We  sat  in 
this  dair-obscur,  and  looked  at  the  sombre-shadowed 
faces  round  us:  the  fat  soldier  with  a  gun,  the  hand- 
some soldier  with  huge  saddle-bags,  the  weird,  dark 
little  man  who  kept  exchanging  a  baby  with  a  solid 
woman  who  had  a  white  cloth  tied  round  her  head, 
a  tall  peasant-woman  in  costume,  who  darted  out  at  a 
dark  station  and  returned  triumphant  with  a  piece  of 
chocolate:  a  young  and  interested  young  man,  who  told 
us  every  station.  And  the  man  who  spat:  there  is 
always  one. 

Gradually  the  crowd  thinned.  At  a  station  we  saw 
our  fat  friend  go  by,  bitterly,  like  a  betrayed  soul,  his 
bulging  saddle-bag  hanging  before  and  after,  but  no 
comfort  in  it  now — no  comfort.  The  pea  of  light 

[  136  ] 


MANDAS 

from  the  paraffin  lamp  grew  smaller.  We  sat  in  in- 
credible dimness,  and  the  smell  of  sheeps-wool  and 
peasant,  with  only  our  fat  and  stoic  young  man  to  tell 
us  where  we  were.  The  other  dusky  faces  began  to 
sink  into  a  dead,  gloomy  silence.  Some  took  to  sleep. 
And  the  little  train  ran  on  and  on,  through  unknown 
Sardinian  darkness.  In  despair  we  drained  the  last 
drop  of  tea  and  ate  the  last  crusts  of  bread.  We  knew 
we  must  arrive  some  time. 

It  was  not  much  after  seven  when  we  came  to  Man- 
das.  Mandas  is  a  junction  where  these  little  trains 
sit  and  have  a  long  happy  chat  after  their  arduous 
scramble  over  the  downs.  It  had  taken  us  somewhere 
about  five  hours  to  do  our  fifty  miles.  No  wonder 
then  that  when  the  junction  at  last  heaves  in  sight 
everybody  bursts  out  of  the  train  like  seeds  from  an 
exploding  pod,  and  rushes  somewhere  for  something. 
To  the  station  restaurant,  of  course.  Hence  there  is 
a  little  station  restaurant  that  does  a  brisk  trade,  and 
where  one  can  have  a  bed. 

A  quite  pleasant  woman  behind  the  little  bar:  a 
brown  woman  with  brown  parted  hair  and  brownish 
eyes  and  brownish,  tanned  complexion  and  tight  brown 
velveteen  bodice.  She  led  us  up  a  narrow  winding 
stone  stair,  as  up  a  fortress,  leading  on  with  her  candle, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

and  ushered  us  into  the  bedroom.  It  smelled  horrid 
and  sourish,  as  shutup  bedrooms  do.  We  threw  open 
the  window.  There  were  big  frosty  stars  snapping 
ferociously  in  heaven. 

The  room  contained  a  huge  bed,  big  enough  for  eight 
people,  and  quite  clean.  And  the  table  on  which  stood 
the  candle  actually  had  a  cloth.  But  imagine  that 
cloth!  I  think  it  had  been  originally  white:  now,  how- 
ever, it  was  such  a  web  of  time-eaten  holes  and  mourn- 
ful black  inkstains  and  poor  dead  wine  stains  that  it 
was  like  some  2000  B.  C.  mummy-cloth.  I  wonder  if 
it  could  have  been  lifted  from  that  table:  or  if  it  was 
mummified  on  to  it!  I  for  one  made  no  attempt  to 
try.  But  that  table-cover  impressed  me,  as  showing 
degrees  I  had  not  imagined. — A  table-cloth. 

We  went  down  the  fortress-stair  to  the  eating-room. 
Here  was  a  long  table  with  soup-plates  upside  down 
and  a  lamp  burning  an  uncanny  naked  acetylene  flame. 
We  sat  at  the  cold  table,  and  the  lamp  immediately  be- 
gan to  wane.  The  room — in  fact  the  whole  of  Sar- 
dinia— was  stone  cold,  stone,  stone  cold.  Outside  the 
earth  was  freezing.  Inside  there  was  no  thought  of 
any  sort  of  warmth:  dungeon  stone  floors,  dungeon 
stone  walls  and  a  dead,  corpse-like  atmosphere,  too 
heavy  and  icy  to  move. 

The  lamp  went  quite  out,  and  the  q-b  gave  a  cry. 

[  138  ] 


MANDAS 

The  brown  woman  poked  her  head  through  a  hole  in 
the  wall.  Beyond  her  we  saw  the  flames  of  the  cook- 
ing, and  two  devil-figures  stirring  the  pots.  The 
brown  woman  came  and  shook  the  lamp — it  was  like  a 
stodgy  porcelain  mantelpiece  vase — shook  it  well  and 
stirred  up  its  innards,  and  started  it  going  once  more. 
Then  she  appeared  with  a  bowl  of  smoking  cabbage 
soup,  in  which  were  bits  of  macaroni:  and  would  we 
have  wine?  I  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  death-cold 
red  wine  of  the  country,  so  asked  what  else  there  was. 
There  was  malvagia — malvoisie,  the  same  old  malmsey 
that  did  for  the  Duke  of  Clarence.  So  we  had  a  pint 
of  malvagia,  and  were  comforted.  At  least  we  were 
being  so,  when  the  lamp  went  out  again.  The  brown 
woman  came  and  shook  and  smacked  it,  and  started  it 
off  again.  But  as  if  to  say  "Shan't  for  you",  it  whipped 
out  again. 

Then  came  the  host  with  a  candle  and  a  pin,  a  large, 
genial  Sicilian  with  pendulous  mustaches.  And  he 
thoroughly  pricked  the  wretch  with  the  pin,  shook  it, 
and  turned  little  screws.  So  up  flared  the  flame.  We 
were  a  little  nervous.  He  asked  us  where  we  came 
from,  etc.  And  suddenly  he  asked  us,  with  an  excited 
gleam,  were  we  Socialists.  Aha,  he  was  going  to  hail 
us  as  citizens  and  comrades.  He  thought  we  were  a 
pair  of  Bolshevist  agents:  I  could  see  it.  And  as  such 

t  139  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

he  was  prepared  to  embrace  us.  But  no,  the  q-b  dis- 
claimed the  honor.  I  merely  smiled  and  shook  my 
head.  It  is  a  pity  to  rob  people  of  their  exciting 
illusions. 

"Ah,  there  is  too  much  socialism  everywhere!"  cried 
the  q-b. 

"Ma — perhaps,  perhaps — "  said  the  discreet  Sicilian. 
She  saw  which  way  the  land  lay,  and  added: 

"Si  vuole  un  -pocchetino  di  Socialismo:  one  wants  a 
tiny  bit  of  socialism  in  the  world,  a  tiny  bit.  But  not 
much.  Not  much.  At  present  there  is  too  much." 

Our  host,  twinkling  at  this  speech  which  treated  of 
the  sacred  creed  as  if  it  were  a  pinch  of  salt  in  the  broth, 
believing  the  q-b  was  throwing  dust  in  his  eyes,  and 
thoroughly  intrigued  by  us  as  a  pair  of  deep  ones,  re- 
tired. No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  the  lamp-flame 
stood  up  at  its  full  length,  and  started  to  whistle.  The 
q-b  drew  back.  Not  satisfied  by  this,  another  flame 
suddenly  began  to  whip  round  the  bottom  of  the  burner, 
like  a  lion  lashing  its  tail.  Unnerved,  we  made  room: 
the  q-b  cried  again:  in  came  the  host  with  a  subtle  smile 
and  a  pin  and  an  air  of  benevolence,  and  tamed  the 
brute. 

What  else  was  there  to  eat?  There  was  a  piece  of 
fried  pork  for  me,  and  boiled  eggs  for  the  q-b.  As 
we  were  proceeding  with  these,  in  came  the  remainder 


MANDAS 

of  the  night's  entertainment:  three  station  officials,  two 
in  scarlet  peaked  caps,  one  in  a  black-and-gold  peaked  cap. 
They  sat  down  with  a  clamour,  in  their  caps,  as  if  there 
was  a  sort  of  invisible  screen  between  us  and  them. 
They  were  young.  The  black  cap  had  a  lean  and  sar- 
donic look:  one  of  the  red-caps  was  little  and  ruddy , 
very  young,  with  a  little  mustache:  we  called  him  the 
maialinoy  the  gay  little  black  pig,  he  was  so  plump  and 
food-nourished  and  frisky.  The  third  was  rather 
puffy  and  pale  and  had  spectacles.  They  all  seemed  to 
present  us  the  blank  side  of  their  cheek,  and  to  intimate 
that  no,  they  were  not  going  to  take  their  hats  off,  even 
if  it  were  dinner-table  and  a  strange  signora.  And 
they  made  rough  quips  with  one  another,  still  as  if  we 
were  on  the  other  side  of  the  invisible  screen. 

Determined  however,  to  remove  this  invisible  screen, 
I  said  Good-evening,  and  it  was  very  cold.  They  mut- 
tered Good-evening,  and  yes,  it  was  fresh.  An  Italian 
never  says  it  is  cold:  it  is  never  more  than  fresco.  But 
this  hint  that  it  was  cold  they  took  as  a  hint  at  their 
caps,  and  they  became  very  silent,  till  the  woman  came 
in  with  the  soup-bowl.  Then  they  clamoured  at  her, 
particularly  the  maialmo,  what  was  there  to  eat.  She 
told  them — beefsteaks  of  pork.  Whereat  they  pulled 
faces.  Or  bits  of  boiled  pork.  They  sighed,  looked 
gloomy,  cheered  up,  and  said  beefsteaks,  then. 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

And  they  fell  on  their  soup.  And  never,  from 
among  the  steam,  have  I  heard  a  more  joyful  trio  of 
soup-swilkering.  They  sucked  it  in  from  their  spoons 
with  long,  gusto-rich  sucks.  The  maialino  was  the 
treble — he  trilled  his  soup  into  his  mouth  with  a  swift, 
sucking  vibration,  interrupted  by  bits  of  cabbage,  which 
made  the  lamp  start  to  dither  again.  Black-cap  was 
the  baritone  j  good,  rolling  spoon-sucks.  And  the  one 
in  spectacles  was  the  bass:  he  gave  sudden  deep  gulps. 
All  was  led  by  the  long  trilling  of  the  maialino.  Then 
suddenly,  to  vary  matters,  he  cocked  up  his  spoon  in 
one  hand,  chewed  a  huge  mouthful  of  bread,  and  swal- 
lowed it  down  with  a  smack-smack-smack!  of  his  tongue 
against  his  palate.  As  children  we  used  to  call  this 
"clapping". 

"Mother,  she's  clapping!"  I  would  yell  with  anger, 
against  my  sister.  The  German  word  is  schmatzen. 

So  the  maialino  clapped  like  a  pair  of  cymbals,  while 
baritone  and  bass  rolled  on.  Then  in  chimed  the  swift 
bright  treble. 

At  this  rate  however,  the  soup  did  not  last  long. 
Arrived  the  beefsteaks  of  pork.  And  now  the  trio  was 
a  trio  of  Castanet  smacks  and  cymbal  claps.  Triumph- 
antly the  maialino  looked  around.  He  out-smacked 
all. 

The  bread  of  the  country  is  rather  coarse  and  brown, 

[  142  ] 


MANDAS 

with  a  hard,  hard  crust.  A  large  rock  of  this  is  perched 
on  every  damp  serviette.  The  maialino  tore  his  rock 
asunder,  and  grumbled  at  the  black-cap,  who  had  got  a 
weird  sort  of  three-cornered  loaf -roll  of  pure  white 
bread — starch  white.  He  was  a  swell  with  this  white 
bread. 

Suddenly  black-cap  turned  to  me.  Where  had  we 
come  from,  where  were  we  going,  what  for?  But  in 
laconic,  sardonic  tone. 

"I  like  Sardinia,"  cried  the  q-b. 

"Why?"  he  asked  sarcastically.  And  she  tried  to 
find  out. 

"Yes,  the  Sardinians  please  me  more  than  the  Sici- 
lians," said  I. 

"Why?"  he  asked  sarcastically. 

"They  are  more  open — more  honest."  He  seemed 
to  turn  his  nose  down. 

"The  padrone  is  a  Sicilian,"  said  the  mamlmoy  stuff- 
ing a  huge  block  of  bread  into  his  mouth,  and  rolling 
his  insouciant  eyes  of  a  gay,  well-fed  little  black  pig 
towards  the  background.  We  weren't  making  much 
headway. 

"YouVe  seen  Cagliari?"  the  black-cap  said  to  me, 
like  a  threat. 

"Yes!   oh  Cagliari  pleases  me — Cagliari  is  beauti- 

[  143  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

full"  cried  the  q-b,  who  travels  with  a  vial  of  melted 
butter  ready  for  her  parsnips. 

"Yes — Cagliari  is  so-so — Cagliari  is  very  fair,"  said 
the  black  cap.  "Cagliari  e  discrete."  He  was  evi- 
dently proud  of  it. 

"And  is  Mandas  nice?"  asked  the  q-b. 

"In  what  way  nice?"  they  asked,  with  immense 
sarcasm. 

"Is  there  anything  to  see?" 

"Hens,"  said  the  maialino  briefly.  They  all  bristled 
when  one  asked  if  Mandas  was  nice. 

"What  does  one  do  here?"  asked  the  q-b. 

"Niente!  At  Mandas  one  does  nothing.  At  Man- 
das one  goes  to  bed  when  it's  dark,  like  a  chicken.  At 
Mandas  one  walks  down  the  road  like  a  pig  that  is 
going  nowhere.  At  Mandas  a  goat  understands  more 
than  the  inhabitants  understand.  At  Mandas  one  needs 
socialism.  .  .  ." 

They  all  cried  out  at  once.  Evidently  Mandas  was 
more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear  for  another  min- 
ute to  these  three  conspirators. 

"Then  you  are  very  bored  here?"  say  I. 

"Yes." 

And  the  quiet  intensity  of  that  naked  yes  spoke  more 
than  volumes. 

"You  would  like  to  be  in  Cagliari?" 

[    H4  ] 


MANDAS 

"Yes." 

Silence,  intense,  sardonic  silence  had  intervened. 
The  three  looked  at  one  another  and  made  a  sour  joke 
about  Mandas.  Then  the  black-cap  turned  to  me. 

"Can  you  understand  Sardinian?"  he  said. 

"Somewhat.     More  than  Sicilian,  anyhow." 

"But  Sardinian  is  more  difficult  than  Sicilian.  It  is 
full  of  words  utterly  unknown  to  Italian — " 

"Yes,  but,"  say  I,  "it  is  spoken  openly,  in  plain 
words,  and  Sicilian  is  spoken  all  stuck  together,  none 
of  the  words  there  at  all." 

He  looks  at  me  as  if  I  were  an  imposter.  Yet  it  is 
true.  I  find  it  quite  easy  to  understand  Sardinian.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  more  a  question  of  human  ap- 
proach than  of  sound.  Sardinian  seems  open  and 
manly  and  downright.  Sicilian  is  gluey  and  evasive,  as 
if  the  Sicilian  didn't  want  to  speak  straight  to  you. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  doesn't.  He  is  an  over-cul- 
tured, sensitive,  ancient  soul,  and  he  has  so  many  sides 
to  his  mind  that  he  hasn't  got  any  definite  one  mind 
at  all.  He's  got  a  dozen  minds,  and  uneasily  he's 
aware  of  it,  and  to  commit  himself  to  any  one  of  them 
is  merely  playing  a  trick  on  himself  and  his  interlocu- 
tor. The  Sardinian,  on  the  other  hand,  still  seems  to 
have  one  downright  mind.  I  bump  up  against  a  down- 
right, smack-out  belief  in  Socialism,  for  example. 

[  145  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

The  Sicilian  is  much  too  old  in  our  culture  to  swallow 
Socialism  whole:  much  too  ancient  and  ruse  not  to  be 
sophisticated  about  any  and  every  belief.  He'll  go 
off  like  a  squib:  and  then  he'll  smoulder  acridly  and 
sceptically  even  against  his  own  fire.  One  sympathizes 
with  him  in  retrospect.  But  in  daily  life  it  is  unbear- 
able. 

"Where  do  you  find  such  white  bread?"  say  I  to  the 
black  cap,  because  he  is  proud  of  it. 

"It  comes  from  my  home."  And  then  he  asks  about 
the  bread  of  Sicily.  Is  it  any  whiter  than  Ms — the 
Mandas  rock.  Yes,  it  is  a  little  whiter.  At  which 
they  gloom  again.  For  it  is  a  very  sore  point,  this 
bread.  Bread  means  a  great  deal  to  an  Italian:  it  is 
verily  his  staff  of  life.  He  practically  lives  on  bread. 
And  instead  of  going  by  taste,  he  now,  like  all  the 
world,  goes  by  eye.  He  has  got  it  into  his  head  that 
bread  should  be  white,  so  that  every  time  he  fancies  a 
darker  shade  in  the  loaf  a  shadow  falls  on  his  soul. 
Nor  is  he  altogether  wrong.  For  although,  person- 
ally, I  don't  like  white  bread  any  more,  yet  I  do  like 
my  brown  bread  to  be  made  of  pure,  unmixed  flour. 
The  peasants  in  Sicily,  who  have  kept  their  own  wheat 
and  make  their  own  natural  brown  bread,  ah,  it  is  amaz- 
ing how  fresh  and  sweet  and  clean  their  loaf  seems, 
so  perfumed,  as  home-bread  used  all  to  be  before  the 

[  146  ] 


MANDAS 

war.  Whereas  the  bread  of  the  commune,  the  regula- 
tion supply,  is  hard,  and  rather  coarse  and  rough,  so 
rough  and  harsh  on  the  palate.  One  gets  tired  to  death 
of  it.  I  suspect  myself  the  maize  meal  mixed  in. 
But  I  don't  know.  And  finally  the  bread  varies  im- 
mensely from  town  to  town,  from  commune  to  com- 
mune. The  so-called  just  and  equal  distribution  is  all 
my-eye.  One  place  has  abundance  of  good  sweet 
bread,  another  scrapes  along,  always  stinted,  on  an  al- 
lowance of  harsh  coarse  stuff.  And  the  poor  suffer 
bitterly,  really,  from  the  bread-stinting,  because  they 
depend  so  on  this  one  food.  They  say  the  inequality 
and  the  injustice  of  distribution  comes  from  the 
Camorra — la  grande  Camorra — which  is  no  more  now- 
adays than  a  profiteering  combine,  which  the  poor  hate. 
But  for  myself,  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  one 
town — Venice,  for  example — seems  to  have  an  endless 
supply  of  pure  bread,  of  sugar,  of  tobacco,  of  salt — 
while  Florence  is  in  one  continual  ferment  of  irritation 
over  the  stinting  of  these  supplies — which  are  all  gov- 
ernment monopoly,  doled  out  accordingly. 

We  said  Good-night  to  our  three  railway  friends, 
and  went  up  to  bed.  We  had  only  been  in  the  room 
a  minute  or  two,  when  the  brown  woman  tapped:  and 
if  you  please,  the  black-cap  had  sent  us  one  of  his  little 
white  loaves.  We  were  really  touched.  Such  deli- 

[  147  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

cate  little  generosities  have  almost  disappeared  from 
the  world. 

It  was  a  queer  little  bread — three-cornered,  and 
almost  as  hard  as  ships  biscuit,  made  of  starch  flour. 
Not  strictly  bread  at  all. 

The  night  was  cold,  the  blankets  flat  and  heavy,  but 
one  slept  quite  well  till  dawn.  At  seven  o'clock  it  was 
a  clear,  cold  morning,  the  sun  not  yet  up.  Standing 
at  the  bedroom  window  looking  out,  I  could  hardly 
believe  my  eyes  it  was  so  like  England,  like  Cornwall 
in  the  bleak  parts,  or  Derbyshire  uplands.  There  was 
a  little  paddock-garden  at  the  back  of  the  Station, 
rather  tumble-down,  with  two  sheep  in  it.  There  were 
several  forlorn-looking  out-buildings,  very  like  Corn- 
wall. And  then  the  wide,  forlorn  country  road 
stretched  away  between  borders  of  grass  and  low,  dry- 
stone  walls,  towards  a  grey  stone  farm  with  a  tuft 
of  trees,  and  a  naked  stone  village  in  the  distance. 
The  sun  came  up  yellow,  the  bleak  country  glimmered 
bluish  and  reluctant.  The  low,  green  hill-slopes  were 
divided  into  fields,  with  low  drystone  walls  and  ditches. 
Here  and  there  a  stone  barn  rose  alone,  or  with  a  few 
bare,  windy  trees  attached.  Two  rough-coated  winter 
horses  pastured  on  the  rough  grass,  a  boy  came  along 
the  naked,  wide,  grass-bordered  high-road  with  a  couple 


MANDAS 

of  milk  cans,  drifting  in  from  nowhere:  and  it  was  all 
so  like  Cornwall,  or  a  part  of  Ireland,  that  the  old  nos- 
talgia for  the  Celtic  regions  began  to  spring  up  in  me. 
Ah,  those  old,  drystone  walls  dividing  the  fields — pale 
and  granite-blenched!  Ah,  the  dark,  sombre  grass, 
the  naked  sky!  the  forlorn  horses  in  the  wintry  morn- 
ing! Strange  is  a  Celtic  landscape,  far  more  moving, 
disturbing  than  the  lovely  glamor  of  Italy  and  Greece. 
Before  the  curtains  of  history  lifted,  one  feels  the 
world  was  like  this — this  Celtic  bareness  and  sombre- 
ness  and  air.  But  perhaps  it  is  not  Celtic  at  all: 
Iberian.  Nothing  is  more  unsatisfactory  than  our  con- 
ception of  what  is  Celtic  and  what  is  not  Celtic.  I 
believe  there  never  were  any  Celts,  as  a  race. — As  for 
the  Iberians — ! 

Wonderful  to  go  out  on  a  frozen  road,  to  see  the 
grass  in  shadow  bluish  with  hoar-frost,  to  see  the  grass 
in  the  yellow  winter-sunrise  beams  melting  and  going 
cold-twinkly.  Wonderful  the  bluish,  cold  air,  and 
things  standing  up  in  cold  distance.  After  two  south- 
ern winters,  with  roses  blooming  all  the  time,  this 
bleakness  and  this  touch  of  frost  in  the  ringing  morning 
goes  to  my  soul  like  an  intoxication.  I  am  so  glad, 
on  this  lonely  naked  road,  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  myself.  I  walk  down  in  the  shallow  grassy 
ditches  under  the  loose  stone  walls,  I  walk  on  the  little 

[    H9   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ridge  of  grass,  the  little  bank  on  which  the  wall  is  built, 
I  cross  the  road  across  the  frozen  cow-droppings:  and  it 
is  all  so  familiar  to  my  feet,  my  very  feet  in  contact, 
that  I  am  wild  as  if  I  had  made  a  discovery.  And  I 
realize  that  I  hate  lime-stone,  to  live  on  lime-stone  or 
marble  or  any  of  those  limey  rocks.  I  hate  them. 
They  are  dead  rocks,  they  have  no  life — thrills  for  the 
feet.  Even  sandstone  is  much  better.  But  granite! 
Granite  is  my  favorite.  It  is  so  live  under  the  feet, 
it  has  a  deep  sparkle  of  its  own.  I  like  its  roundnesses 
— and  I  hate  the  jaggy  dryness  of  limestone,  that  burns 
in  the  sun,  and  withers. 

After  coming  to  a  deep  well  in  a  grassy  plot  in  a 
wide  space  of  the  road,  I  go  back,  across  the  sunny 
naked  upland  country,  towards  the  pink  station  and  its 
out-buildings.  An  engine  is  steaming  its  white  clouds 
in  the  new  light.  Away  to  the  left  there  is  even  a 
row  of  small  houses,  like  a  row  of  railway-mens'  dwell- 
ings. Strange  and  familiar  sight.  And  the  station 
precincts  are  disorderly  and  rather  dilapidated.  I 
think  of  our  Sicilian  host. 

The  brown  woman  gives  us  coffee,  and  very  strong, 
rich  goats'  milk,  and  bread.  After  which  the  q-b 
and  I  set  off  once  more  along  the  road  to  the  village. 
She  too  is  thrilled.  She  too  breathes  deep.  She  too 

1 150] 


MANDAS 

feels  s'pace  around  her,  and  freedom  to  move  the  limbs: 
such  as  one  does  not  feel  in  Italy  and  Sicily,  where  all 
is  so  classic  and  fixed. 

The  village  itself  is  just  a  long,  winding,  darkish 
street,  in  shadow,  of  houses  and  shops  and  a  smithy. 
It  might  almost  be  Cornwall:  not  quite.  Something, 
I  don't  know  what,  suggests  the  stark  burning  glare  of 
summer.  And  then,  of  course,  there  is  none  of  the 
cosiness  which  climbing  roses  and  lilac  trees  and  cottage 
shops  and  haystacks  would  give  to  an  English  scene. 
This  is  harder,  barer,  starker,  more  dreary.  An  ancient 
man  in  the  black-and-white  costume  comes  out  of  a 
hovel  of  a  cottage.  The  butcher  carries  a  huge  side  of 
meat.  The  women  peer  at  us — but  more  furtive  and 
reticent  than  the  howling  stares  of  Italy. 

So  we  go  on,  down  the  rough-cobbled  street  through 
the  whole  length  of  the  village.  And  emerging  on 
the  other  side,  past  the  last  cottage,  we  find  ourselves 
again  facing  the  open  country,  on  the  gentle  down- 
slope  of  the  rolling  hill.  The  landscape  continues  the 
same:  low,  rolling  upland  hills,  dim  under  the  yellow 
sun  of  the  January  morning:  stone  fences,  fields,  grey- 
arable  land:  a  man  slowly,  slowly  ploughing  with  a 
pony  and  a  dark-red  cow:  the  road  trailing  empty  across 
the  distance:  and  then,  the  one  violently  unfamiliar 
note,  the  enclosed  cemetery  lying  outside  on  the  gentle 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

hill-side,  closed  in  all  round,  very  compact,  with  high 
walls:  and  on  the  inside  face  of  the  enclosure  wall  the 
marble  slabs,  like  shut  drawers  of  the  sepulchres,  shin- 
ing white,  the  wall  being  like  a  chest  of  drawers,  or 
pigeon  holes  to  hold  the  dead.  Tufts  of  dark  and 
plumy  cypresses  rise  among  the  flat  graves  of  the  en- 
closure. In  the  south,  cemeteries  are  walled  off  and 
isolated  very  tight.  The  dead,  as  it  were,  are  kept 
fast  in  pound.  There  is  no  spreading  of  graves  over 
the  face  of  the  country.  They  are  penned  in  a  tight 
fold,  with  cypresses  to  fatten  on  the  bones.  This  is  the 
one  thoroughly  strange  note  in  the  landscape.  But 
all-pervading  there  is  a  strangeness,  that  strange  feeling 
as  if  the  deaths  were  barren,  which  comes  in  the  south 
and  the  east,  sun-stricken.  Sun-stricken,  and  the  heart 
eaten  out  by  the  dryness. 

"I  like  it!      I  like  it!"  cries  the  q-b. 

"But  could  you  live  here?"  She  would  like  to  say 
yes,  but  daren't. 

We  stray  back.  The  q-b  wants  to  buy  one  of  those 
saddle-bag  arrangements.  I  say  what  for?  She  says 
to  keep  things  in.  Ach!  but  peeping  in  the  shops,  we 
see  one  and  go  in  and  examine  it.  It  is  quite  a  sound 
one,  properly  made:  but  plain,  quite  plain.  On  the 
white  cross-stripes  there  are  no  lovely  colored  flowers 
of  rose  and  green  and  magenta:  the  three  favorite  Sar- 

[  152  ] 


MANDAS 

dinian  colors:  nor  are  there  any  of  the  fantastic  and 
griffin-like  beasts.  So  it  won't  do.  How  much  does 
it  cost?  Forty-five  francs. 

There  is  nothing  to  do  in  Mandas.  So  we  will  take 
the  morning  train  and  go  to  the  terminus,  to  Sorgono. 
Thus,  we  shall  cross  the  lower  slopes  of  the  great  cen- 
tral knot  of  Sardinia,  the  mountain  knot  called  Gen- 
nargentu.  And  Sorgono  we  feel  will  be  lovely. 

Back  at  the  station  we  make  tea  on  the  spirit  lamp, 
fill  the  thermos,  pack  the  knapsack  and  the  kitchenino, 
and  come  out  into  the  sun  of  the  platform.  The  q-b 
goes  to  thank  the  black-cap  for  the  white  bread,  whilst 
I  settle  the  bill  and  ask  for  food  for  the  journey.  The 
brown  woman  fishes  out  from  a  huge  black  pot  in  the 
background  sundry  hunks  of  coarse  boiled  pork,  and 
gives  me  two  of  these,  hot,  with  bread  and  salt.  This 
is  the  luncheon.  I  pay  the  bill:  which  amounts  to 
twenty-four  francs,  for  everything.  (One  says  francs 
or  liras,  irrespective,  in  Italy.)  At  that  moment  ar- 
rives the  train  from  Cagliari,  and  men  rush  in,  roaring 
for  the  soup — or  rather,  for  the  broth.  "Ready, 
ready!"  she  cries,  going  to  the  black  pot. 


t  153  ] 


V. 
TO  SORGONO. 

THE  various  trains  in  the  junction  squatted  side 
by  side  and  had  long,  long  talks  before  at 
last  we  were  off.     It  was  wonderful  to  be 
running  in  the  bright  morning  towards  the  heart  of 
Sardinia,  in  the  little  train  that  seemed  so  familiar. 
We  were  still  going  third  class,  rather  to  the  disgust 
of  the  railway  officials  at  Mandas. 

At  first  the  country  was  rather  open :  always  the  long 
spurs  of  hills,  steep-sided,  but  not  high.  And  from 
our  little  train  we  looked  across  the  country,  across  hill 
and  dale.  In  the  distance  was  a  little  town,  on  a  low 
slope.  But  for  its  compact,  fortified  look  it  might  have 
been  a  town  on  the  English  downs.  A  man  in  the  car- 
riage leaned  out  of  the  window  holding  out  a  white 
cloth,  as  a  signal  to  someone  in  the  far  off  town  that 
he  was  coming.  The  wind  blew  the  white  cloth,  the 
town  in  the  distance  glimmered  small  and  alone  in  its 
hollow.  And  the  little  train  pelted  along. 

[  154  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

It  was  rather  comical  to  see  it.  We  were  always 
climbing.  And  the  line  curved  in  great  loops.  So 
that  as  one  looked  out  of  the  window,  time  and  again 
one  started,  seeing  a  little  train  running  in  front  of 
us,  in  a  diverging  direction,  making  big  puffs  of  steam. 
But  lo,  it  was  our  own  little  engine  pelting  off  around 
a  loop  away  ahead.  We  were  quite  a  long  train,  but 
all  trucks  in  front,  only  our  two  passenger  coaches 
hitched  on  behind.  And  for  this  reason  our  own  engine 
was  always  running  fussily  into  sight,  like  some  dog 
scampering  in  front  and  swerving  about  us,  while  we 
followed  at  the  tail  end  of  the  thin  string  of  trucks. 

I  was  surprised  how  well  the  small  engine  took  the 
continuous  steep  slopes,  how  bravely  it  emerged  on  the 
sky-line.  It  is  a  queer  railway.  I  would  like  to  know 
who  made  it.  It  pelts  up  hill  and  down  dale  and  round 
sudden  bends  in  the  most  unconcerned  fashion,  not  as 
proper  big  railways  do,  grunting  inside  deep  cuttings 
and  stinking  their  way  through  tunnels,  but  running 
up  the  hill  like  a  panting,  small  dog,  and  having  a  look 
round,  and  starting  off  in  another  direction,  whisking 
us  behind  unconcernedly.  This  is  much  more  fun  than 
the  tunnel-and-cutting  system. 

They  told  me  that  Sardinia  mines  her  own  coal:  and 
quite  enough  for  her  own  needs:  but  very  soft,  not  fit 
for  steam-purposes.  I  saw  heaps  of  it:  small,  dull, 

[  155  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

dirty-looking    stuff.     Truck-loads    of    it    too.     And 
truck-loads  of  grain. 

At  every  station  we  were  left  ignominiously  planted, 
while  the  little  engines — they  had  gay  gold  names  on 
their  black  little  bodies — strolled  about  along  the  side- 
lines, and  snuffed  at  the  various  trucks.  There  we  sat, 
at  every  station,  while  some  truck  was  discarded  and 
some  other  sorted  out  like  a  branded  sheep,  from  the 
sidings  and  hitched  on  to  us.  It  took  a  long  time,  this 
did. 

All  the  stations  so  far  had  had  wire  netting  over  the 
windows.  This  means  malaria-mosquitoes.  The  ma- 
laria climbs  very  high  in  Sardinia.  The  shallow  up- 
land valleys,  moorland  with  their  intense  summer  sun 
and  the  riverless,  boggy  behaviour  of  the  water  breed 
the  pest  inevitably.  But  not  very  terribly,  as  far  as 
one  can  make  out:  August  and  September  being  the 
danger  months.  The  natives  don't  like  to  admit  there 
is  any  malaria:  a  tiny  bit,  they  say,  a  tiny  bit.  As  soon 
as  you  come  to  the  trees  there  is  no  more.  So  they  say. 
For  many  miles  the  landscape  is  moorland  and  down- 
like,  with  no  trees.  But  wait  for  the  trees.  Ah,  the 
woods  and  forests  of  Gennargentu:  the  woods  and  for- 
ests higher  up:  no  malaria  there! 

The  little  engine  whisks  up  and  up,  around  its  loopy 

[  156  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

curves  as  if  it  were  going  to  bite  its  own  tail:  we  being 
the  tail:  then  suddenly  dives  over  the  skyline  out  of 
sight.  And  the  landscape  changes.  The  famous  woods 
begin  to  appear.  At  first  it  is  only  hazel-thickets, 
miles  of  hazel-thickets,  all  wild,  with  a  few  black  cat- 
tle trying  to  peep  at  us  out  of  the  green  myrtle  and 
arbutus  scrub  which  forms  the  undergrowth;  and  a 
couple  of  rare,  wild  peasants  peering  at  the  train. 
They  wear  the  black  sheepskin  tunic,  with  the  wool 
outside,  and  the  long  stocking  caps.  Like  cattle  they 
too  peer  out  from  between  deep  bushes.  The  myrtle 
scrub  here  rises  man-high,  and  cattle  and  men  are 
smothered  in  it.  The  big  hazels  rise  bare  above.  It 
must  be  difficult  getting  about  in  these  parts. 

Sometimes,  in  the  distance  one  sees  a  black-and-white 
peasant  riding  lonely  across  a  more  open  place,  a  tiny 
vivid  figure.  I  like  so  much  the  proud  instinct  which 
makes  a  living  creature  distinguish  itself  from  its  back- 
ground. I  hate  the  rabbity  khaki  protection-colouration. 
A  black-and-white  peasant  on  his  pony,  only  a  dot  in 
the  distance  beyond  the  foliage,  still  flashes  and  domi- 
nates the  landscape.  Ha-ha!  proud  mankind!  There 
you  ride!  But  alas,  most  of  the  men  are  still  khaki- 
muffled,  rabbit-indistinguishable,  ignominious.  The 
Italians  look  curiously  rabbity  in  the  grey-green  uni- 
form: just  as  our  sand-colored  khaki  men  look  doggy. 

[  157  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

They  seem  to  scuffle  rather  abased,  ignominious  on  the 
earth.  Give  us  back  the  scarlet  and  gold,  and  devil 
take  the  hindmost. 

The  landscape  really  begins  to  change.  The  hill- 
sides tilt  sharper  and  sharper.  A  man  is  ploughing 
with  two  small  red  cattle  on  a  craggy,  tree-hanging 
slope  as  sharp  as  a  roof-side.  He  stoops  at  the  small 
wooden  plough,  and  jerks  the  ploughlines.  The  oxen 
lift  their  noses  to  heaven,  with  a  strange  and  beseeching 
snake-like  movement,  and  taking  tiny  little  steps  with 
their  frail  feet,  move  slantingly  across  the  slope-face, 
between  rocks  and  tree-roots.  Little,  frail,  jerky  steps 
the  bullocks  take,  and  again  they  put  their  horns  back 
and  lift  their  muzzles  snakily  to  heaven,  as  the  man 
pulls  the  line.  And  he  skids  his  wooden  plough  round 
another  scoop  of  earth.  It  is  marvellous  how  they 
hang  upon  that  steep,  craggy  slope.  An  English  la- 
bourer's eyes  would  bolt  out  of  his  head  at  the  sight. 

There  is  a  stream:  actually  a  long  tress  of  a  water- 
fall pouring  into  a  little  gorge,  and  a  stream-bed  that 
opens  a  little,  and  shows  a  marvellous  cluster  of  naked 
poplars  away  below.  They  are  like  ghosts.  They 
have  a  ghostly,  almost  phosphorescent  luminousness  in 
the  shadow  of  the  valley,  by  the  stream  of  water.  If 
not  phosphorescent,  then  incandescent:  a  grey,  goldish- 

[  158 1 


TO  SORGONO 

pale  incandescence  of  naked  limbs  and  myriad  cold- 
glowing  twigs,  gleaming  strangely.  If  I  were  a 
painter  I  would  paint  them:  for  they  seem  to  have  liv- 
ing, sentient  flesh.  And  the  shadow  envelopes  them. 
Another  naked  tree  I  would  paint  is  the  gleaming 
mauve-silver  fig,  which  burns  its  cold  incandescence, 
tangled,  like  some  sensitive  creature  emerged  from  the 
rock.  A  fig  tree  come  forth  in  its  nudity  gleaming 
over  the  dark  winter-earth  is  a  sight  to  behold.  Like 
some  white,  tangled  sea  anemone.  Ah,  if  it  could  but 
answer!  or  if  we  had  tree-speech! 

Yes,  the  steep  valley  sides  become  almost  gorges, 
and  there  are  trees.  Not  forests  such  as  I  had  im- 
agined, but  scattered,  grey,  smallish  oaks,  and  some 
lithe  chestnuts.  Chestnuts  with  their  long  whips,  and 
oaks  with  their  stubby  boughs,  scattered  on  steep  hill- 
sides where  rocks  crop  out.  The  train  perilously  wind- 
ing round,  half  way  up.  Then  suddenly  bolting  over 
a  bridge  and  into  a  completely  unexpected  station. 
What  is  more,  men  crowd  in — the  station  is  connected 
with  the  main  railway  by  a  post  motor-omnibus. 

An  unexpected  irruption  of  men — they  may  be 
miners  or  navvies  or  land-workers.  They  all  have 
huge  sacks:  some  lovely  saddle-bags  with  rose-coloured 
flowers  across  the  darkness.  One  old  man  is  in  full 

[  159  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

black-and-white  costume,  but  very  dirty  and  coming  to 
pieces.  The  others  wear  the  tight  madder-brown 
breeches  and  sleeved  waistcoats.  Some  have  the  sheep- 
skin tunic,  and  all  wear  the  long  stocking  cap.  And 
how  they  smell!  of  sheep-wool  and  of  men  and  goat. 
A  rank  scent  fills  the  carriage. 

They  talk  and  are  very  lively.  And  they  have 
mediaeval  faces,  ruse,  never  really  abandoning  their 
defences  for  a  moment,  as  a  badger  or  a  pole-cat  never 
abandons  its  defences.  There  is  none  of  the  brother- 
liness  and  civilised  simplicity.  Each  man  knows  he 
must  guard  himself  and  his  own:  each  man  knows  the 
devil  is  behind  the  next  bush.  They  have  never  known 
the  post-Renaissance  Jesus.  Which  is  rather  an  eye- 
opener. 

Not  that  they  are  suspicious  or  uneasy.  On  the  con- 
trary, noisy,  assertive,  vigorous  presences.  But  with 
none  of  that  implicit  belief  that  everybody  will  be  and 
ought  to  be  good  to  them,  which  is  the  mark  of  our  era. 
They  don't  expect  people  to  be  good  to  them:  they 
don't  want  it.  They  remind  me  of  half -wild  dogs  that 
will  love  and  obey,  but  which  won't  be  handled.  They 
won't  have  their  heads  touched.  And  they  won't  be 
fondled.  One  can  almost  hear  the  half-savage  growl. 

The  long  stocking  caps  they  wear  as  a  sort  of  crest, 
as  a  lizard  wears  his  crest  at  mating  time.  They  are 

1 60 


TO  SORGONO 

always  moving  them,  settling  them  on  their  heads. 
One  fat  fellow,  young,  with  sly  brown  eyes  and  a  young 
beard  round  his  face  folds  his  stocking-foot  in  three, 
so  that  it  rises  over  his  brow  martial  and  handsome. 
The  old  boy  brings  his  stocking-foot  over  the  left  ear. 
A  handsome  fellow  with  a  jaw  of  massive  teeth  pushes 
his  cap  back  and  lets  it  hang  a  long  way  down  his  back. 
Then  he  shifts  it  forward  over  his  nose,  and  makes  it 
have  two  sticking-out  points,  like  fox-ears,  above  his 
temples.  It  is  marvellous  how  much  expression  these 
caps  can  take  on.  They  say  that  only  those  born  to 
them  can  wear  them.  They  seem  to  be  just  long  bags, 
nearly  a  yard  long,  of  black  stockinette  stuff. 

The  conductor  comes  to  issue  them  their  tickets. 
And  they  all  take  out  rolls  of  paper  money.  Even  a 
little  mothy  rat  of  a  man  who  sits  opposite  me  has  quite 
a  pad  of  ten-franc  notes.  Nobody  seems  short  of  a 
hundred  francs  nowadays:  nobody. 

They  shout  and  expostulate  with  the  conductor. 
Full  of  coarse  life  they  are:  but  so  coarse!  The  hand- 
some fellow  has  his  sleeved  waistcoat  open,  and  his 
shirt-breast  has  come  unbuttoned.  Not  looking,  it 
seems  as  if  he  wears  a  black  undervest.  Then  sud- 
denly, one  sees  it  is  his  own  hair.  He  is  quite  black 
inside  his  shirt,  like  a  black  goat. 

But  there  is  a  gulf  between  oneself  and  them,  They 
[  161  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

have  no  inkling  of  our  crucifixion,  our  universal  con- 
sciousness. Each  of  them  is  pivoted  and  limited  to 
himself,  as  the  wild  animals  are.  They  look  out,  and 
they  see  other  objects,  objects  to  ridicule  or  mistrust  or 
to  sniff  curiously  at.  But  "thou  shalt  love  thy  neigh  - 
bour  as  thyself"  has  never  entered  their  souls  at  all,  not 
even  the  thin  end  of  it.  They  might  love  their  neigh- 
bour, with  a  hot,  dark,  unquestioning  love.  But  the 
love  would  probably  leave  off  abruptly.  The  fascina- 
tion of  what  is  beyond  them  has  not  seized  on  them. 
Their  neighbour  is  a  mere  external.  Their  life  is  centri- 
petal, pivoted  inside  itself,  and  does  not  run  out  towards 
others  and  mankind.  One  feels  for  the  first  time  the 
real  old  mediaeval  life,  which  is  enclosed  in  itself  and 
has  no  interest  in  the  world  outside. 

And  so  they  lie  about  on  the  seats,  play  a  game, 
shout,  and  sleep,  and  settle  their  long  stocking-caps: 
and  spit.  It  is  wonderful  in  them  that  at  this  time  of 
day  they  still  wear  the  long  stocking-caps  as  part  of 
their  inevitable  selves.  It  is  a  sign  of  obstinate  and 
powerful  tenacity.  They  are  not  going  to  be  broken 
in  upon  by  world-consciousness.  They  are  not  going 
into  the  world's  common  clothes.  Coarse,  vigorous, 
determined,  they  will  stick  to  their  own  coarse  dark 
stupidity  and  let  the  big  world  find  its  own  way  to  its 

[  162  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

own  enlightened  hell.  Their  hell  is  their  own  hell, 
they  prefer  it  unenlightened. 

And  one  cannot  help  wondering  whether  Sardinia 
will  resist  right  through.  Will  the  last  waves  of  en- 
lightenment and  world-unity  break  over  them  and  wash 
away  the  stocking-caps?  Or  is  the  tide  of  enlighten- 
ment and  world-unity  already  receding  fast  enough? 

Certainly  a  reaction  is  setting  in,  away  from  the  old 
universality,  back,  away  from  cosmopolitanism  and 
internationalism.  Russia,  with  her  Third  Inter- 
national, is  at  the  same  time  reacting  most  violently 
away  from  all  other  contact,  back,  recoiling  on 
herself,  into  a  fierce,  unapproachable  Russian- 
ism.  Which  motion  will  conquer?  The  workman's 
International,  or  the  centripetal  movement  into  na- 
tional isolation?  Are  we  going  to  merge  into  one 
grey  proletarian  homogeneity? — or  are  we  going  to 
swing  back  into  more-or-less  isolated,  separate,  defiant 
communities? 

Probably  both.  The  workman's  International  move- 
ment will  finally  break  the  flow  towards  cosmopolitan- 
ism and  world-assimilation,  and  suddenly  in  a  crash 
the  world  will  fly  back  into  intense  separations.  The 
moment  has  come  when  America,  that  extremist  in 
world-assimilation  and  world-oneness,  is  reacting  into 
violent  egocentricity,  a  truly  Amerindian  egocentricity. 

[  163  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

As  sure  as  fate  we  are  on  the  brink  of  American  empire. 

For  myself,  I  am  glad.  I  am  glad  that  the  era  of 
love  and  oneness  is  over:  hateful  homogeneous  world- 
oneness.  I  am  glad  that  Russia  flies  back  into  savage 
Russianism,  Scythism,  savagely  self-pivoting.  I  am 
glad  that  America  is  doing  the  same.  I  shall  be  glad 
when  men  hate  their  common,  world-alike  clothes, 
when  they  tear  them  up  and  clothe  themselves  fiercely 
for  distinction,  savage  distinction,  savage  distinction 
against  the  rest  of  the  creeping  world:  when  America 
kicks  the  billy-cock  and  the  collar-and-tie  into  limbo,  and 
takes  to  her  own  national  costume:  when  men  fiercely 
react  against  looking  all  alike  and  being  all  alike,  and 
betake  themselves  into  vivid  clan  or  nation-distinctions. 

The  era  of  love  and  oneness  is  over.  The  era  of 
world-alike  should  be  at  an  end.  The  other  tide  has 
set  in.  Men  will  set  their  bonnets  at  one  another 
now,  and  fight  themselves  into  separation  and  sharp 
distinction.  The  day  of  peace  and  oneness  is  over, 
the  day  of  the  great  fight  into  multifariousness  is  at 
hand.  Hasten  the  day,  and  save  us  from  proletarian 
homogeneity  and  khaki  all-alikeness. 

I  love  my  indomitable  coarse  men  from  mountain 
Sardinia,  for  their  stocking-caps  and  their  splendid, 
animal-bright  stupidity.  If  only  the  last  wave  of  all- 

[  164  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

alikeness  won't  wash  those  superb  crests,  those  caps, 
away. 

We  are  struggling  now  among  the  Gennargentu 
spurs.  There  is  no  single  peak — no  Etna  of  Sardinia. 
The  train,  like  the  plough,  balances  on  the  steep,  steep 
sides  of  the  hill-spurs,  and  winds  around  and  around. 
Above  and  below  the  steep  slopes  are  all  bosky.  These 
are  the  woods  of  Gennargentu.  But  they  aren't  woods 
in  my  sense  of  the  word.  They  are  thin  sprinkles  of 
oaks  and  chestnuts  and  cork-trees  over  steep  hill-slopes. 
And  cork-trees!  I  see  curious  slim  oaky-looking  trees 
that  are  stripped  quite  naked  below  the  boughs,  stand- 
ing brown-ruddy,  curiously  distinct  among  the  bluey 
grey  pallor  of  the  others.  They  remind  me,  again 
and  again,  of  glowing,  coffee-brown,  naked  aborigines 
of  the  South  Seas.  They  have  the  naked  suavity,  skin- 
bare,  and  an  intense  coffee-red  colour  of  unclothed 
savages.  And  these  are  the  stripped  cork-trees.  Some 
are  much  stripped,  some  little.  Some  have  the  whole 
trunk  and  part  of  the  lower  limbs  ruddy  naked,  some 
only  a  small  part  of  the  trunk. 

It  is  well  on  in  the  afternoon.  A  peasant  in  black 
and  white,  and  his  young,  handsome  woman  in  rose-red 
costume,  with  gorgeous  apron  bordered  deep  with 

[  165  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

grass-green,  and  a  little,  dark-purple  waistcoat  over 
her  white,  full  bodice,  are  sitting  behind  me  talking. 
The  workmen  peasants  are  subsiding  into  sleep.  It  is 
well  on  in  the  afternoon,  we  have  long  ago  eaten  the 
meat.  Now  we  finish  the  white  loaf,  the  gift,  and  the 
tea.  Suddenly  looking  out  of  the  window,  we  see 
Gennargentu's  mass  behind  us,  a  thick  snow-deep  knot- 
summit,  beautiful  beyond  the  long,  steep  spurs  among 
which  we  are  engaged.  We  lose  the  white  mountain 
mass  for  half  an  hour:  when  suddenly  it  emerges  un- 
expectedly almost  in  front,  the  great,  snow-heaved 
shoulder. 

How  different  it  is  from  Etna,  that  lonely,  self- 
conscious  wonder  of  Sicily!  This  is  much  more  hu- 
man and  knowable,  with  a  deep  breast  and  massive 
limbs,  a  powerful  mountain-body.  It  is  like  the 
peasants. 

The  stations  are  far  between — an  hour  from  one  to 
another.  Ah,  how  weary  one  gets  of  these  journeys, 
they  last  so  long.  We  look  across  a  valley — a  stone's 
throw.  But  alas,  the  little  train  has  no  wings,  and 
can't  jump.  So  back  turns  the  line,  back  and  back 
towards  Gennargentu,  a  long  rocky  way,  till  it  comes 
at  length  to  the  poor  valley-head.  This  it  skirts  fuss- 
ily, and  sets  off  to  pelt  down  on  its  traces  again,  gaily. 

[  166  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

And  a  man  who  was  looking  at  us  doing  our  round- 
about has  climbed  down  and  crossed  the  valley  in  five 
minutes. 

The  peasants  nearly  all  wear  costumes  now,  even 
the  women  in  the  fields:  the  little  fields  in  the  half- 
populated  valleys.  These  Gennargentu  valleys  are  all 
half-populated,  more  than  the  moors  further  south. 

It  is  past  three  o'clock,  and  cold  where  there  is  no 
sun.  At  last  only  one  more  station  before  the  ter- 
minus. And  here  the  peasants  wake  up,  sling  the  bulg- 
ing sacks  over  their  shoulders,  and  get  down.  We  see 
Tonara  away  above.  We  see  our  old  grimy  black-and- 
white  peasant  greeted  by  his  two  women  who  have 
come  to  meet  him  with  the  pony — daughters  hand- 
some in  vivid  rose  and  green  costume.  Peasants,  men 
in  black  and  white,  men  in  madder-brown,  with  the 
close  breeches  on  their  compact  thighs,  women  in  rose- 
and-white,  ponies  with  saddle-bags,  all  begin  to  trail 
up  the  hill-road  in  silhouette,  very  handsome,  towards 
the  far-off,  perched,  sun-bright  village  of  Tonara,  a 
big  village,  shining  like  a  New  Jerusalem. 

The  train  as  usual  leaves  us  standing,  and  shuffles 
with  trucks — water  sounds  in  the  valley:  there  are 
stacks  of  cork  on  the  station,  and  coal.  An  idiot  girl 
in  a  great  full  skirt  entirely  made  of  coloured  patches 

[  167  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

mops  and  mows.  Her  little  waistcoat  thing  is  also  in- 
credibly old,  and  shows  faint  signs  of  having  once  been 
a  lovely  purple  and  black  brocade.  The  valley  and 
steep  slopes  are  open  about  us.  An  old  shepherd  has 
a  lovely  flock  of  delicate  merino  sheep. 

And  at  last  we  move.  In  one  hour  we  shall  be 
there.  As  we  travel  among  the  tree  slopes,  many 
brown  cork-trees,  we  come  upon  a  flock  of  sheep.  Two 
peasants  in  our  carriage  looking  out,  give  the  most 
weird,  unnatural,  high-pitched  shrieks,  entirely  unpro- 
duceable  by  any  ordinary  being.  The  sheep  know, 
however,  and  scatter.  And  after  ten  minutes  the 
shrieks  start  again,  for  three  young  cattle.  Whether 
the  peasants  do  it  for  love,  I  don't  know.  But  it  is 
the  wildest  and  weirdest  inhuman  shepherd  noise  I 
have  ever  heard. 

It  is  Saturday  afternoon  and  four  o'clock.  The 
country  is  wild  and  uninhabited,  the  train  almost 
empty,  yet  there  is  the  leaving-off-work  feeling  in 
the  atmosphere.  Oh  twisty,  wooded,  steep  slopes,  oh 
glimpses  of  Gennargentu,  oh  nigger-stripped  cork- 
trees, oh  smell  of  peasants,  oh  wooden,  wearisome 
railway  carriage,  we  are  so  sick  of  you!  Nearly  seven 
hours  of  this  journey  already:  and  a  distance  of  sixty 
miles. 

[  168  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

But  we  are  almost  there — look,  look,  Sorgono,  nest- 
ling beautifully  among  the  wooded  slopes  in  front. 
Oh  magic  little  town.  Ah,  you  terminus  and  gang- 
lion of  the  inland  roads,  we  hope  in  you  for  a  pleasant 
inn  and  happy  company.  Perhaps  we  will  stay  a  day 
or  two  at  Sorgono. 

The  train  gives  a  last  sigh,  and  draws  to  a  last  stand- 
still in  the  tiny  terminus  station.  An  old  fellow  flut- 
tering with  rags  as  a  hen  in  the  wind  flutters,  asked 
me  if  I  wanted  the  Albergoy  the  inn.  I  said  yes,  and 
let  him  take  my  knapsack.  Pretty  Sorgono!  As  we 
went  down  the  brief  muddy  lane  between  hedges,  to 
the  village  high-road,  we  seemed  almost  to  have  come 
to  some  little  town  in  the  English  west-country,  or  in 
Hardy's  country.  There  were  glades  of  stripling 
oaks,  and  big  slopes  with  oak  trees,  and  on  the  right 
a  saw-mill  buzzing,  and  on  the  left  the  town,  white  and 
close,  nestling  round  a  baroque  church-tower.  And 
the  little  lane  was  muddy. 

Three  minutes  brought  us  to  the  highroad,  and  a 
great,  pink-washed  building  blank  on  the  road  facing 
the  station  lane,  and  labelled  in  huge  letters:  RISTOR- 
ANTE  RISVEGLIO:  the  letter  N  being  printed  back- 
wards. Risveglio  if  you  please:  which  means  waking 
up  or  rousing,  like  the  word  reveille.  Into  the  door- 
way of  the  Risveglio  bolted  the  flutterer.  "Half  a 

[  169  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

minute,"  said  I.  "Where  is  the  Albergo  d'ltalia?" 
I  was  relying  on  Baedeker. 

"Non  c'e  piu,"  replied  my  rag-feather.  "There 
isn't  it  any  more."  This  answer,  being  very  frequent 
nowadays,  is  always  most  disconcerting. 

"Well  then,  what  other  hotel?" 

"There  is  no  other." 

Risveglio  or  nothing.  In  we  go.  We  pass  into  a 
big,  dreary  bar,  where  are  innumerable  bottles  behind 
a  tin  counter.  Flutter- jack  yells:  and  at  length  appears 
mine  host,  a  youngish  fellow  of  the  Esquimo  type, 
but  rather  bigger,  in  a  dreary  black  suit  and  a  cutaway 
waistcoat  suggesting  a  dinner-waistcoat,  and  innumer- 
able wine-stains  on  his  shirt  front.  I  instantly  hated 
him  for  the  filthy  appearance  he  made.  He  wore  a 
battered  hat  and  his  face  was  long  unwashed. 

Was  there  a  bedroom? 

Yes. 

And  he  led  the  way  down  the  passage,  just  as  dirty 
as  the  road  outside,  up  the  hollow,  wooden  stairs  also 
just  as  clean  as  the  passage,  along  a  hollow,  drum- 
rearing  dirty  corridor,  and  into  a  bedroom.  Well,  it 
contained  a  large  bed,  thin  and  flat  with  a  grey-white 
counterpane,  like  a  large,  poor,  marble-slabbed  tomb 
in  the  room's  sordid  emptiness  j  one  dilapidated  chair 
on  which  stood  the  miserablest  weed  of  a  candle  I  have 

[  170  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

ever  seen:  a  broken  wash-saucer  in  a  wire  ring:  and 
for  the  rest,  an  expanse  of  wooden  floor  as  dirty-grey- 
black  as  it  could  be,  and  an  expanse  of  wall  charted 
with  the  bloody  deaths  of  mosquitoes.  The  window 
was  about  two  feet  above  the  level  of  a  sort  of  stable- 
yard  outside,  with  a  fowl-house  just  by  the  sash. 
There,  at  the  window  flew  lousy  feathers  and  dirty 
straw,  the  ground  was  thick  with  chicken-droppings. 
An  ass  and  two  oxen  comfortably  chewed  hay  in  an 
open  shed  just  across,  and  plump  in  the  middle  of  the 
yard  lay  a  bristly  black  pig  taking  the  last  of  the  sun. 
Smells  of  course  were  varied. 

The  knapsack  and  the  kitchenino  were  dropped  on 
the  repulsive  floor,  which  I  hated  to  touch  with  my 
boots  even.  I  turned  back  the  sheets  and  looked  at 
other  people's  stains. 

"There  is  nothing  else?" 

"Niente,"  said  he  of  the  lank,  low  forehead  and 
beastly  shirt-breast.  And  he  sullenly  departed.  I 
gave  the  flutterer  his  tip  and  he  too  ducked  and  fled. 
Then  the  queen-bee  and  I  took  a  few  mere  sniffs. 

"Dirty,  disgusting  swine!"  said  I,  and  I  was  in  a 
rage. 

I  could  have  forgiven  him  anything,  I  think,  except 
his  horrible  shirt-breast,  his  personal  shamelessness. 

We  strolled  round — saw  various  other  bedrooms, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

some  worse,  one  really  better.  But  this  showed  signs 
of  being  occupied.  All  the  doors  were  open:  the 
place  was  quite  deserted,  and  open  to  the  road.  The 
one  thing  that  seemed  definite  was  honesty.  It  must 
be  a  very  honest  place,  for  every  footed  beast,  man  or 
animal,  could  walk  in  at  random  and  nobody  to  take 
the  slightest  regard. 

So  we  went  downstairs.  The  only  other  apartment 
was  the  open  public  bar,  which  seemed  like  part  of 
the  road.  A  muleteer,  leaving  his  mules  at  the  corner 
of  the  Risveglio,  was  drinking  at  the  counter. 

This  famous  inn  was  at  the  end  of  the  village. 
We  strolled  along  the  road  between  the  houses,  down- 
hill. A  dreary  hole!  a  cold,  hopeless,  lifeless,  Satur- 
day afternoon-weary  village,  rather  sordid,  with  noth- 
ing to  say  for  itself.  No  real  shops  at  all.  A  weary- 
looking  church,  and  a  clutch  of  disconsolate  houses. 
We  walked  right  through  the  village.  In  the  middle 
was  a  sort  of  open  space  where  stood  a  great,  grey 
motor-omnibus.  And  a  bus-driver  looking  rather 
weary. 

Where  did  the  bus  go? 

It  went  to  join  the  main  railway. 

When? 

At  half-past  seven  in  the  morning. 


TO  SORGONO 

Only  then? 

Only  then. 

"Thank  God  we  can  get  out,  anyhow,"  said  I. 

We  passed  on,  and  emerged  beyond  the  village,  still 
on  the  descending  great  high-road  that  was  mended 
with  loose  stones  pitched  on  it.  This  wasn't  good 
enough.  Besides,  we  were  out  of  the  sun,  and  the 
place  being  at  a  considerable  elevation,  it  was  very  cold. 
So  we  turned  back,  to  climb  quickly  uphill  into  the  sun. 

We  went  up  a  little  side-turning  past  a  bunch  of 
poor  houses  towards  a  steep  little  lane  between  banks. 
And  before  we  knew  where  we  were,  we  were  in  the 
thick  of  the  public  lavatory.  In  these  villages,  as  I 
knew,  there  are  no  sanitary  arrangements  of  any  sort 
whatever.  Every  villager  and  villageress  just  betook 
himself  at  need  to  one  of  the  side-roads.  It  is  the 
immemorial  Italian  custom.  Why  bother  about  pri- 
vacy? The  most  socially-constituted  people  on  earth, 
they  even  like  to  relieve  themselves  in  company. 

We  found  ourselves  in  the  full  thick  of  one  of  these 
meeting-places.  To  get  out  at  any  price!  So  we 
scrambled  up  the  steep  earthen  banks  to  a  stubble  field 
above.  And  by  this  time  I  was  in  a  greater  rage. 

Evening  was  falling,  the  sun  declining.     Below  us 

[  173  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

clustered  the  Sodom-apple  of  this  vile  village.  Around 
were  fair,  tree-clad  hills  and  dales,  already  bluish  with 
the  frost-shadows.  The  air  bit  cold  and  strong.  In 
a  very  little  time  the  sun  would  be  down.  We  were 
at  an  elevation  of  about  2,500  feet  above  the  sea. 

No  denying  it  was  beautiful,  with  the  oak-slopes 
and  the  wistfulness  and  the  far-off  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness and  evening.  But  I  was  in  too  great  a  temper  to 
admit  it.  We  clambered  frenziedly  to  get  warm. 
And  the  sun  immediately  went  right  down,  and  the  ice- 
heavy  blue  shadow  fell  over  us  all.  The  village  be- 
gan to  send  forth  blue  wood-smoke,  and  it  seemed 
more  than  ever  like  the  twilit  West  Country. 

But  thank  you — we  had  to  get  back.  And  run  the 
gauntlet  of  that  stinking,  stinking  lane?  Never. 
Towering  with  fury — quite  unreasonable,  but  there  you 
are — I  marched  the  q-b  down  a  declivity  through  a 
wood,  over  a  ploughed  field,  along  a  cart-track,  and  so 
to  the  great  high-road  above  the  village  and  above 
the  inn. 

It  was  cold,  and  evening  was  falling  into  dusk.  Down 
the  high-road  came  wild  half -ragged  men  on  ponies, 
in  all  degrees  of  costume  and  not-costume:  came  four 
wide-eyed  cows  stepping  down-hill  round  the  corner, 
and  three  delicate,  beautiful  merino  sheep  which  stared 
at  us  with  their  prominent,  gold-curious  eyes:  came  an 

[  174] 


TO  SORGONO 

ancient,  ancient  man  with  a  stick:  came  a  stout-chested 
peasant  carrying  a  long  wood-pole:  came  a  straggle  of 
alert  and  triumphant  goats,  long-horned,  long-haired, 
jingling  their  bells.  Everbody  greeted  us  hesitatingly. 
And  everything  came  to  a  halt  at  the  Risveglio  corner, 
while  the  men  had  a  nip. 

I  attacked  the  spotty-breast  again. 

Could  I  have  milk? 

No.  Perhaps  in  an  hour  there  would  be  milk. 
Perhaps  not. 

Was  there  anything  to  eat? 

No — at  half  past  seven  there  would  be  something 
to  eat. 

Was  there  a  fire? 

No — the  man  hadn't  made  the  fire. 

Nothing  to  do  but  to  go  to  that  foul  bedroom  or 
walk  the  highroad.  We  turned  up  the  highroad  again. 
Animals  stood  about  the  road  in  the  frost-heavy  air, 
with  heads  sunk  passively,  waiting  for  the  men  to 
finish  their  drinks  in  the  beastly  bar — we  walked  slow- 
ly up  the  hill.  In  a  field  on  the  right  a  flock  of  merino 
sheep  moved  mistily,  uneasily,  climbing  at  the  gaps 
in  the  broken  road  bank,  and  sounding  their  innumer- 
able small  fine  bells  with  a  frosty  ripple  of  sound.  A 
figure  which  in  the  dusk  I  had  really  thought  was 
something  inanimate  broke  into  movement  in  the  field. 

[  175  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

It  was  an  old  shepherd,  very  old,  in  very  ragged  dirty 
black-and-white,  who  had  been  standing  like  a  stone 
there  in  the  open  field-end  for  heaven  knows  how 
long,  utterly  motionless,  leaning  on  his  stick.  Now 
he  broke  into  a  dream-motion  and  hobbled  after  the 
wistful,  feminine,  inquisitive  sheep.  The  red  was 
fading  from  the  far-off  west.  At  the  corner,  climb- 
ing slowly  and  wearily,  we  almost  ran  into  a  grey 
and  lonely  bull,  who  came  stepping  down-hill  in  his 
measured  fashion  like  some  god.  He  swerved  his 
head  and  went  round  us. 

We  reached  a  place  which  we  couldn't  make  out: 
then  saw  it  was  a  cork-shed.  There  were  stacks  and 
stacks  of  cork-bark  in  the  dusk,  like  crumpled  hides. 

"Now  Pm  going  back,"  said  the  q-b  flatly,  and  she 
swung  round.  The  last  red  was  smouldering  beyond 
the  lost,  thin-wooded  hills  of  this  interior.  A  fleece 
of  blue,  half-luminous  smoke  floated  over  the  obscure 
village.  The  high-way  wound  downhill  at  our  feet, 
pale  and  blue. 

And  the  q-b  was  angry  with  me  for  my  fury. 

"Why  are  you  so  indignant!  Anyone  would  think 
your  moral  self  had  been  outraged!  Why  take  it 
morally?  You  petrify  that  man  at  the  inn  by  the 
very  way  you  speak  to  him,  such  condemnation!  Why 
don't  you  take  it  as  it  comes?  It's  all  life." 

[  176  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

But  no,  my  rage  is  black,  black,  black.  Why, 
heaven  knows.  But  I  think  it  was  because  Sorgono 
had  seemed  so  fascinating  to  me,  when  I  imagined 
it  beforehand.  Oh  so  fascinating!  If  I  had  expected 
nothing  I  should  not  have  been  so  hit.  Blessed  is  he 
that  expecteth  nothing,  for  he  shall  not  be  disappointed. 

I  cursed  the  degenerate  aborigines,  the  dirty-breasted 
host  who  dared,  to  keep  such  an  inn,  the  sordid  villagers 
who  had  the  baseness  to  squat  their  beastly  human 
nastiness  in  this  upland  valley.  All  my  praise  of  the 
long  stocking-cap — you  remember? — vanished  from  my 
mouth.  I  cursed  them  all,  and  the  q-b  for  an  inter- 
fering female.  .  .  . 

In  the  bar  a  wretched  candle  was  weeping  light — 
uneasy,  gloomy  men  were  drinking  their  Saturday- 
evening-home-coming  dram.  Cattle  lay  down  in  the 
road,  in  the  cold  air  as  if  hopeless. 

Had  the  milk  come? 

No. 

When  would  it  come. 

He  didn't  know. 

Well,  what  were  we  to  do?  Was  there  no  room? 
Was  there  nowhere  where  we  could  sit? 

Yes,  there  was  the  stanza  now. 

Now!  Taking  the  only  weed  of  a  candle,  and 
[  177  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

leaving  the  drinkers  in  the  dark,  he  led  us  down  a  dark 
and  stumbly  earthen  passage,  over  loose  stones  and 
an  odd  plank,  as  it  would  seem  underground,  to  the 
stanza:  the  room. 

The  stanza!  It  was  pitch  dark — But  suddenly  I 
saw  a  big  fire  of  oak-root,  a  brilliant,  flamy,  rich  fire, 
and  my  rage  in  that  second  disappeared. 

The  host,  and  the  candle,  forsook  us  at  the  door. 
The  stanza  would  have  been  in  complete  darkness, 
save  for  that  rushing  bouquet  of  new  flames  in  the 
chimney,  like  fresh  flowers.  By  this  firelight  we  saw 
the  room.  It  was  like  a  dungeon,  absolutely  empty, 
with  an  uneven,  earthen  floor,  quite  dry,  and  high  bare 
walls,  gloomy,  with  a  handbreadth  of  window  high  up. 
There  was  no  furniture  at  all,  save  a  little  wooden 
bench,  a  foot  high,  before  the  fire,  and  several  home- 
made-looking rush  mats  rolled  up  and  leaning  against 
the  walls.  Furthermore  a  chair  before  the  fire  on 
which  hung  wet  table-napkins.  Apart  from  this,  it 
was  a  high,  dark,  naked  prison-dungeon. 

But  it  was  quite  dry,  it  had  an  open  chimney,  and 
a  gorgeous  new  fire  rushing  like  a  waterfall  upwards 
among  the  craggy  stubs  of  a  pile  of  dry  oak  roots. 
I  hastily  put  the  chair  and  the  wet  corpse-cloths  to 
one  side.  We  sat  on  the  low  bench  side  by  side  in 
the  dark,  in  front  of  this  rippling  rich  fire,  in  front 

1 178  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

of  the  cavern  of  the  open  chimney,  and  we  did  not 
care  any  more  about  the  dungeon  and  the  darkness. 
Man  can  live  without  food,  but  he  can't  live  without 
fire.  It  is  an  Italian  proverb.  We  had  found  the 
fire,  like  new  gold.  And  we  sat  in  front  of  it,  a  little 
way  back,  side  by  side  on  the  low  form,  our  feet  on  the 
uneven  earthen  floor,  and  felt  the  flame-light  rippling 
upwards  over  our  faces,  as  if  we  were  bathing  in  some 
gorgeous  stream  of  fieriness.  I  forgave  the  dirty- 
breasted  host  everything  and  was  as  glad  as  if  I  had 
come  into  a  kingdom. 

So  we  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour,  smiling  into  the 
flames,  bathing  our  faces  in  the  glow.  From  time  to 
time  I  was  aware  of  steps  in  the  tunnel-like  passage 
outside,  and  of  presences  peering.  But  no  one  came. 
I  was  aware  too  of  the  faint  steaming  of  the  beastly 
table-napkins,  the  only  other  occupants  of  the  room. 

In  dithers  a  candle,  and  an  elderly,  bearded  man  in 
gold-coloured  corduroys,  and  an  amazing  object  on  a 
long,  long  spear.  He  put  the  candle  on  the  mantel- 
ledge,  and  crouched  at  the  side  of  the  fire,  arranging 
the  oak-roots.  He  peered  strangely  and  fixedly  in  the 
fire.  And  he  held  up  the  speared  object  before  our 
faces. 

It  was  a  kid  that  he  had  come  to  roast.     But  it  was 

[  179  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

a  kid  opened  out,  made  quite  flat,  and  speared  like  a 
flat  fan  on  a  long  iron  stalk.  It  was  a  really  curious 
sight.  And  it  must  have  taken  some  doing.  The 
whole  of  the  skinned  kid  was  there,  the  head  curled  in 
against  a  shoulder,  the  stubby  cut  ears,  the  eyes,  the 
teeth,  the  few  hairs  of  the  nostrils:  and  the  feet  curled 
curiously  round,  like  an  animal  that  puts  its  fore-paw 
over  its  ducked  head:  and  the  hind-legs  twisted  indes- 
cribably up:  and  all  skewered  flat-wise  upon  the  long 
iron  rod,  so  that  it  was  a  complete  flat  pattern.  It  re- 
minded me  intensely  of  those  distorted,  slim-limbed, 
dog-like  animals  which  figure  on  the  old  Lombard 
ornaments,  distorted  and  curiously  infolded  upon  them- 
selves. Celtic  illuminations  also  have  these  distorted, 
involuted  creatures. 

The  old  man  flourished  the  flat  kid  like  a  banner- 
ette, whilst  he  arranged  the  fire.  Then,  in  one  side  of 
the  fire-place  wall  he  poked  the  point  of  the  rod.  He 
himself  crouched  on  the  hearth-end,  in  the  half-shadow 
at  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place,  holding  the  further 
end  of  the  long  iron  rod.  The  kid  was  thus  extended 
before  the  fire,  like  a  hand-screen.  And  he  could 
spin  it  round  at  will. 

But  the  hole  in  the  masonry  of  the  chimney-piece 
was  not  satisfactory.  The  point  of  the  rod  kept  slip- 
ping, and  the  kid  came  down  against  the  fire.  He  mut- 

[  180  ] 


SORGONO 


Jan  Juta 


TO  SORGONO 

tered  and  muttered  to  himself,  and  tried  again.  Then  at 
length  he  reared  up  the  kid-banner  whilst  he  got  large 
stones  from  a  dark  corner.  He  arranged  these  stones  so 
that  the  iron  point  rested  on  them.  He  himself  sat 
away  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire-place,  on  the 
shadowy  hearth-end,  and  with  queer,  spell-bound  black 
eyes  and  completely  immovable  face,  he  watched  the 
flames  and  the  kid,  and  held  the  handle  end  of  the  rod. 

We  asked  him  if  the  kid  was  for  the  evening  meal — 
and  he  said  it  was.  It  would  be  good!  And  he  said 
yes,  and  looked  with  chargin  at  the  bit  of  ash  on  the 
meat,  where  it  had  slipped.  It  is  a  point  of  honour 
that  it  should  never  touch  the  ash.  Did  they  do  all 
their  meat  this  way?  He  said  they  did.  And  wasn't 
it  difficult  to  put  the  kid  thus  on  the  iron  rod?  He  said 
it  was  not  easy,  and  he  eyed  the  joint  closely,  and  felt 
one  of  the  forelegs,  and  muttered  that  was  not  fixed 
properly. 

He  spoke  with  a  very  soft  mutter,  hard  to  catch, 
and  sideways,  never  to  us  direct.  But  his  manner  was 
gentle,  soft,  muttering,  reticent,  sensitive.  He  asked 
us  where  we  came  from,  and  where  we  were  going:  al- 
ways in  his  soft  mutter.  And  what  nation  were  we, 
were  we  French?  Then  he  went  on  to  say  there  was 
a  war — but  he  thought  it  was  finished.  There  was  a 
war  because  the  Austrians  wanted  to  come  into  Italy 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

again.  But  the  French  and  the  English  came  to  help 
Italy.  A  lot  of  Sardinians  had  gone  to  it.  But  let 
us  hope  it  is  all  finished.  He  thought  it  was — -young 
men  of  Sorgono  had  been  killed.  He  hoped  it  was 
finished. 

Then  he  reached  for  the  candle  and  peered  at  the 
kid.  It  was  evident  he  was  the  born  roaster.  He  held 
the  candle  and  looked  for  a  long  time  at  the  sizzling 
side  of  the  meat,  as  if  he  would  read  portents.  Then 
he  held  his  spit  to  the  fire  again.  And  it  was  as  if 
time  immemorial  were  roasting  itself  another  meal. 
I  sat  holding  the  candle. 

A  young  woman  appeared,  hearing  voices.  Her 
head  was  swathed  in  a  shawl,  one  side  of  which  was 
brought  across,  right  over  the  mouth,  so  that  only  her 
two  eyes  and  her  nose  showed.  The  q-b  thought  she 
must  have  toothache — but  she  laughed  and  said  no. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  that  is  the  way  a  head-dress  is 
worn  in  Sardinia,  even  by  both  sexes.  It  is  something 
like  the  folding  of  the  Arab's  burnoose.  The  point 
seems  to  be  that  the  mouth  and  chin  are  thickly  cov- 
ered, also  the  ears  and  brow,  leaving  only  the  nose 
and  eyes  exposed.  They  say  it  keeps  off  the  malaria. 
The  men  swathe  shawls  round  their  heads  in  the  same 

[  182  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

way.  It  seems  to  me  they  want  to  keep  their  heads 
warm,  dark  and  hidden:  they  feel  secure  inside. 

She  wore  the  workaday  costume:  a  full,  dark-brown 
skirt,  the  full  white  bodice,  and  a  little  waistcoat  or 
corset.  This  little  waistcoat  in  her  case  had  become 
no  more  than  a  shaped  belt,  sending  up  graceful,  stiff- 
ened points  under  the  breasts,  like  long  leaves  standing 
up.  It  was  pretty — but  all  dirty.  She  too  was  pretty, 
but  with  an  impudent,  not  quite  pleasant  manner.  She 
fiddled  with  the  wet  napkins,  asked  us  various  questions, 
and  addressed  herself  rather  jerkily  to  the  old  man, 
who  answered  hardly  at  all — Then  she  departed  again. 
The  women  are  self-conscious  in  a  rather  smirky  way, 
bouncy. 

When  she  was  gone  I  asked  the  old  man  if  she  was 
his  daughter.  He  said  very  brusquely,  in  his  soft 
mutter,  No.  She  came  from  a  village  some  miles 
away.  He  did  not  belong  to  the  inn.  He  was,  as 
far  as  I  understood,  the  postman.  But  I  may  have 
been  mistaken  about  the  word. 

But  he  seemed  laconic,  unwilling  to  speak  about  the 
inn  and  its  keepers.  There  seemed  to  be  something 
queer.  And  again  he  asked  where  we  were  going. 
He  told  me  there  were  now  two  motor-buses:  a  new 
one  which  ran  over  the  mountains  to  Nuoro.  Much 
better  gp  to  Nuoro  than  to  Abbasanta.,  Nuoro  was 

[  183  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

evidently  the  town  towards  which  these  villages  looked, 
as  a  sort  of  capital. 

The  kid-roasting  proceeded  very  slowly,  the  meat 
never  being  very  near  the  fire.  From  time  to  time 
the  roaster  arranged  the  cavern  of  red-hot  roots. 
Then  he  threw  on  more  roots.  It  was  very  hot.  And 
he  turned  the  long  spit,  and  still  I  held  the  candle. 

Other  people  came  strolling  in,  to  look  at  us.  But 
they  hovered  behind  us  in  the  dark,  so  I  could  not  make 
out  at  all  clearly.  They  strolled  in  the  gloom  of  the 
dungeon-like  room,  and  watched  us.  One  came  for- 
ward— a  fat,  fat  young  soldier  in  uniform.  I  made 
place  for  him  on  the  bench — but  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  disclaimed  the  attention.  Then  he  went  away 
again. 

The  old  man  propped  up  the  roast,  and  then  he  too 
disappeared  for  a  time.  The  thin  candle  guttered, 
the  fire  was  no  longer  flamy  but  red.  The  roaster  re- 
appeared with  a  new,  shorter  spear,  thinner,  and  a  great 
lump  of  raw  hog-fat  spitted  on  it.  This  he  thrust 
into  the  red  fire.  It  sizzled  and  smoked  and  spit  fat, 
and  I  wondered.  He  told  me  he  wanted  it  to  catch 
fire.  It  refused.  He  groped  in  the  hearth  for  the 
bits  of  twigs  with  which  the  fire  had  been  started. 
These  twig-stumps  he  stuck  in  the  fat,  like  an  orange 

[  184  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

stuck  with  cloves,  then  he  held  it  in  the  fire  again. 
Now  at  last  it  caught,  and  it  was  a  flaming  torch  run- 
ning downwards  with  a  thin  shower  of  flaming  fat. 
And  now  he  was  satisfied.  He  held  the  fat-torch 
with  its  yellow  flares  over  the  browning  kid,  which  he 
turned  horizontal  for  the  occasion.  All  over  the 
roast  fell  the  flaming  drops,  till  the  meat  was  all  shiny 
and  browny.  He  put  it  to  the  fire  again,  holding  the 
diminishing  fat,  still  burning  bluish,  over  it  all  the  time 
in  the  upper  air. 

While  this  was  in  process  a  man  entered  with  a  loud 
Good  evening.  We  replied  Good-evening — and  evi- 
dently he  caught  a  strange  note.  He  came  and  bent  down 
and  peered  under  my  hat-brim,  then  under  the  q-b's 
hat-brim,  we  still  wore  hats  and  overcoats,  as  did  every- 
body. Then  he  stood  up  suddenly  and  touched  his 
cap  and  said  Scusi — excuse  me.  I  said  Niente,  which 
one  always  says,  and  he  addressed  a  few  jovial  words 
to  the  crouching  roaster:  who  again  would  hardly  ans- 
wer him.  The  omnibus  was  arrived  from  Oristano, 
I  made  out — with  few  passengers. 

This  man  brought  with  him  a  new  breezy  atmos- 
phere, which  the  roaster  did  not  like.  However,  I 
made  place  on  the  low  bench,  and  the  attention  this 
time  was  accepted.  Sitting  down  at  the  extreme  end, 

[  185  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

he  came  into  the  light,  and  I  saw  a  burly  man  in  the 
prime  of  life,  dressed  in  dark  brown  velvet,  with  a 
blond  little  moustache  and  twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a 
tipsy  look.  I  thought  he  might  be  some  local  trades- 
man or  farmer.  He  asked  a  few  questions,  in  a  boister- 
ous familiar  fashion,  then  went  out  again.  He  ap- 
peared with  a  small  iron  spit,  a  slim  rod,  in  one  hand, 
and  in  the  other  hand  two  joints  of  kid  and  a  handful 
of  sausages.  He  stuck  his  joints  on  his  rod.  But  our 
roaster  still  held  the  interminable  flat  kid  before  the 
now  red,  flameless  fire.  The  fat-torch  was  burnt  out, 
the  cinder  pushed  in  the  fire.  A  moment's  spurt  of 
flame,  then  red,  intense  redness  again,  and  our  kid  be- 
fore it  like  a  big,  dark  hand. 

"Eh,"  said  the  newcomer,  whom  I  will  call  the  giro- 
vago,  "it's  done.  The  kid's  done.  It's  done." 

The  roaster  slowly  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  ans- 
wer. He  sat  like  time  and  eternity  at  the  hearth-end, 
his  face  flame-flushed,  his  dark  eyes  still  fire-abstract, 
still  sacredly  intent  on  the  roast. 

"Na-na-na!"  said  the  girovago.  "Let  another  body 
see  the  fire."  And  with  his  pieces  of  meat  awkwardly 
skewered  on  his  iron  stick  he  tried  to  poke  under  the 
authorised  kid  and  get  at  the  fire.  In  his  soft  mutter, 
the  old  man  bade  him  wait  for  the  fire  till  the  fire  was 
ready  for  him.  But  the  girovago  poked  impudently 

[  186  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

and  good  humouredly,  and  said  testily  that  the  author- 
ised kid  was  done. 

"Yes,  surely  it  is  done,"  said  I,  for  it  was  already  a 
quarter  to  eight. 

The  old  roasting  priest  muttered,  and,  took  out  his 
knife  from  his  pocket.  He  pressed  the  blade  slowly, 
slowly  deep  into  the  meat:  as  far  as  a  knife  will  go  in 
a  piece  of  kid.  He  seemed  to  be  feeling  the  meat  in- 
wardly. And  he  said  it  was  not  done.  He  shook  his 
head,  and  remained  there  like  time  and  eternity  at  the 
end  of  the  rod. 

The  girovago  said  Sangue  di  Dio,  but  couldn't  roast 
his  meat!  And  he  tried  to  poke  his  skewer  near  the 
coals.  So  doing  his  pieces  fell  off  into  the  ashes,  and 
the  invisible  onlookers  behind  raised  a  shout  of  laugh- 
ter. However,  he  raked  it  out  and  wiped  it  with  his 
hand  and  said  No  matter,  nothing  lost. 

Then  he  turned  to  me  and  asked  the  usual  whence 
and  whither  questions.  These  answered,  he  said  wasn't 
I  German.  I  said  No,  I  was  English.  He  looked  at 
me  many  times,  shrewdly,  as  if  he  wanted  to  make  out 
something.  Then  he  asked,  where  were  we  domi- 
ciled— and  I  said  Sicily.  And  then,  very  pertinently, 
why  had  we  come  to  Sardinia.  I  said  for  pleasure, 
and  to  see  the  island. 

[  187  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Ah,  per  divertimento!"  he  repeated,  half -musingly, 
not  believing  me  in  the  least. 

Various  men  had  now  come  into  the  room,  though 
they  all  remained  indistinct  in  the  background.  The 
girovago  talked  and  jested  abroad  in  the  company,  and 
the  half -visible  men  laughed  in  a  rather  hostile  manner. 

At  last  the  old  roaster  decided  the  kid  was  done. 
He  lifted  it  from  the  fire  and  scrutinised  it  thoroughly, 
holding  the  candle  to  it,  as  if  it  were  some  wonderful 
epistle  from  the  flames.  To  be  sure  it  looked  mar- 
vellous, and  smelled  so  good:  brown,  and  crisp,  and 
hot,  and  savoury,  not  burnt  in  any  place  whatever.  It 
was  eight  o'clock. 

"It's  done!  It's  done!  Go  away  with  it!  Go." 
said  the  girovago,  pushing  the  old  roaster  with  his  hand. 
And  at  last  the  old  man  consented  to  depart,  hold- 
ing the  kid  like  a  banner. 

"It  looks  so  good!"  cried  the  q-b.  "And  I  am  so 
hungry." 

"Ha-ha!  It  makes  one  hungry  to  see  good  meat, 
Signora.  Now  it  is  my  turn.  Heh — Gino — "  the 
girovago  flourished  his  arm.  And  a  handsome,  un- 
washed man  with  a  black  moustache  came  forward 
rather  sheepishly.  He  was  dressed  in  soldier's  clothes, 
neutral  grey,  and  was  a  big,  robust,  handsome  fellow 
with  dark  eyes  and  Mediterranean  sheepishness. 

[  188  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

"Here,  take  it  thou,"  said  the  girovago,  pressing  the 
long  spit  into  his  hand.  "It  is  thy  business,  cook  the 
supper,  thou  art  the  woman. — But  I'll  keep  the  saus- 
ages and  do  them." 

The  so-called  woman  sat  at  the  end  of  the  hearth, 
where  the  old  roaster  had  sat,  and  with  his  brown, 
nervous  hand  piled  the  remaining  coals  together.  The 
fire  was  no  longer  flamy:  and  it  was  sinking.  The 
dark-browed  man  arranged  it  so  that  he  could  cook  the 
meat.  He  held  the  spit  negligently  over  the  red  mass. 
A  joint  fell  off.  The  men  laughed.  "It's  lost  noth- 
ing," said  the  dark-browed  man,  as  the  girovago  had 
said  before;  and  he  skewered  it  on  again  and  thrust  it 
to  the  fire.  But  meanwhile  he  was  looking  up  from 
under  his  dark  lashes  at  the  girovago  and  at  us. 

The  girovago  talked  continually.  He  turned  to  me, 
holding  the  handful  of  sausages. 

"This  makes  the  tasty  bit,"  he  said. 

"Oh  yes — good  salsiccia,"  said  I. 

"You  are  eating  the  kid?  You  are  eating  at  the 
inn?"  he  said.  I  replied  that  I  was. 

"No,"  he  said.  "You  stay  and  eat  with  me.  You 
eat  with  me.  The  sausage  is  good,  the  kid  will  soon 
be  done,  the  fire  is  grateful." 

I  laughed,  not  quite  understanding  him.  He  was 
certainly  a  bit  tipsy. 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Signora,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  q-b.  She  did  not 
like  him,  he  was  impudent,  and  she  shut  a  deaf  ear  to  him 
as  far  as  she  could.  "Signora,"  he  said,  "do  you 
understand  me  what  I  say?" 

She  replied  that  she  did. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  "I  sell  things  to  the  women. 
I  sell  them  things." 

"What  do  you  sell?"  she  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Saints,"  he  said. 

"Saints!"  she  cried  in  more  astonishment. 

"Yes,  saints,"  he  said  with  tipsy  gravity. 

She  turned  in  confusion  to  the  company  in  the  back- 
ground. The  fat  soldier  came  forward,  he  was  the 
chief  of  the  carabinieri. 

"Also  combs  and  bits  of  soap  and  little  mirrors,"  he 
explained  sarcastically. 

"Saints!"  said  the  girovago  once  more.  "And  also 
ragazzini — also  youngsters — Wherever  I  go  there  is  a 
little  one  comes  running  calling  Babbo!  Babbo! 
Daddy!  Daddy!  Wherever  I  go — youngsters. 
And  I'm  the  babbo." 

All  this  was  received  with  a  kind  of  silent  sneer 
from  the  invisible  assembly  in  the  background.  The 
candle  was  burning  low,  the  fire  was  sinking  too.  In 
vain  the  dark-browed  man  tried  to  build  it  up.  The 
q-b  became  impatient  for  the  food.  She  got  up  wrath- 

[  190  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

fully  and  stumbled  into  the  dark  passage,  exclaiming — 
"Don't  we  eat  yet?" 

"Eh — Patience!  Patience,  Signora.  It  takes  time 
in  this  house,"  said  the  man  in  the  background. 

The  dark-browed  man  looked  up  at  the  girovago 
and  said: 

"Are  you  going  to  cook  the  sausages  with  your  fing- 
ers?" 

He  too  was  trying  to  be  assertive  and  jesting,  but 
he  was  the  kind  of  person  no  one  takes  any  notice  of. 
The  girovago  rattled  on  in  dialect,  poking  fun  at  us 
and  at  our  being  there  in  this  inn.  I  did  not  quite 
follow. 

"Signora ! "  said  the  girovago.  "Do  you  understand 
Sardinian?" 

"I  understand  Italian — and  some  Sardinian,"  she 
replied  rather  hotly.  "And  I  know  that  you  are  try- 
ing to  laugh  at  us — to  make  fun  of  us." 

He  laughed  fatly  and  comfortably. 

"Ah  Signora,"  he  said.  "We  have  a  language  that 
you  wouldn't  understand — not  one  word.  Nobody 
here  would  understand  it  but  me  and  him — "  he 
pointed  to  the  black-browed  one.  "Everybody  would 
want  an  interpreter — everybody." 

But  he  did  not  say  interpreter — he  said  mtre^retey 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

with  the  accent  on  the  penultimate,  as  if  it  were  some 
sort  of  priest. 

"A  what?  "said  I. 

He  repeated  with  tipsy  unction,  and  I  saw  what  he 
meant. 

"Why?"  said  I.  "Is  it  a  dialect?  What  is  your 
dialect?" 

"My  dialect,"  he  said,  "is  Sassari.  I  come  from 
Sassari.  If  I  spoke  my  dialect  they  would  understand 
something.  But  if  I  speak  this  language  they  would 
want  an  interpreter." 

"What  language  is  it  then?" 

He  leaned  up  to  me,  laughing. 

"It  is  the  language  we  use  when  the  women  are 
buying  things  and  we  don't  want  them  to  know  what 
we  say:  me  and  him — " 

"Oh,"  said  I.  "I  know.  We  have  that  language 
in  England.  It  is  called  thieves  Latin — Latino  dei 
furbi." 

The  men  at  the  back  suddenly  laughed,  glad  to 
turn  the  joke  against  the  forward  girovago.  He 
looked  down  his  nose  at  me.  But  seeing  I  was  laugh- 
ing without  malice,  he  leaned  to  me  and  said  softly, 
secretly: 

"What  is  your  affair  then?     What  affair  is  it,  yours? " 

"How?  What?"     I  exclaimed,  not  understanding. 
[   192   ] 


TO  SORGONO 

"Che  genere  di  affari?     What  sort  of  business?" 

"How — affari?"  said  I,  still  not  grasping. 

"What  do  you  sell?"  he  said,  flatly  and  rather  spite- 
fully. "What  goods?" 

"I  don't  sell  anything,"  replied  I,  laughing  to  think 
he  took  us  for  some  sort  of  strolling  quacks  or  commer- 
cial travellers. 

"Cloth — or  something,"  he  said  cajolingly,  slyly, 
as  if  to  worm  my  secret  out  of  me. 

"But  nothing  at  all.  Nothing  at  all,"  said  I.  "We 
have  come  to  Sardinia  to  see  the  peasant  costumes — " 
I  thought  that  might  sound  satisfactory. 

"Ah,  the  costumes!"  he  said,  evidently  thinking  I 
was  a  deep  one.  And  he  turned  bandying  words  with 
his  dark-browed  mate,  who  was  still  poking  the  meat 
at  the  embers  and  crouching  on  the  hearth.  The  room 
was  almost  quite  dark.  The  mate  answered  him  back, 
and  tried  to  seem  witty  too.  But  the  girovago  was  the 
commanding  personality!  rather  too  much  so:  too  im- 
pudent for  the  q-b,  though  rather  after  my  own  secret 
heart.  The  mate  was  one  of  those  handsome,  passive, 
stupid  men. 

"Him!"  said  the  girovago,  turning  suddenly  to  me 
and  pointing  at  the  mate.  "He's  my  wife," 

"Your  wife!  "said  I. 

[  193  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Yes.  He's  my  wife,  because  we're  always  to- 
gether." 

There  had  become  a  sudden  dead  silence  in  the 
background.  In  spite  of  it  the  mate  looked  up  under 
his  black  lashes  and  said,  with  a  half  smile: 

"Don't  talk,  or  I  shall  give  thee  a  good  bacio  to- 
night." 

There  was  an  instant's  fatal  pause,  then  the  girovago 
continued: 

"Tomorrow  is  festa  of  Sant  'Antonio  at  Tonara. 
Tomorrow  we  are  going  to  Tonara.  Where  are  you 
going?" 

"To  Abbasanta,"  said  I. 

"Ah  Abbasanta!  You  should  come  to  Tonara.  At 
Tonara  there  is  a  brisk  trade — and  there  are  costumes. 
You  should  come  to  Tonara.  Come  with  him  and 
me  to  Tonara  tomorrow,  and  we  will  do  business  to- 
gether." 

I  laughed,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Come,"  said  he.  "You  will  like  Tonara!  Ah, 
Tonara  is  a  fine  place.  There  is  an  inn:  you  can  eat 
well,  sleep  well.  I  tell  you,  because  to  you  ten  francs 
don't  matter.  Isn't  that  so?  Ten  francs  don't  matter 
to  you.  Well,  then  come  to  Tonara.  What?  What 
do  you  say?" 

I  shook  my  head  and  laughed,  but  4id  not  answer, 

[   194  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

To  tell  the  truth  I  should  have  liked  to  go  to  Tonara 
with  him  and  his  mate  and  do  the  brisk  trade:  if  only 
I  knew  what  trade  it  would  be. 

"You  are  sleeping  upstairs?"  he  said  to  me. 

I  nodded. 

"This  is  my  bed,"  he  said,  taking  one  of  the  home- 
made rush  mats  from  against  the  wall.  I  did  not  take 
him  seriously  at  any  point. 

"Do  they  make  those  in  Sorgono?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  in  Sorgono — they  are  the  beds,  you  see !  And 
you  roll  up  this  end  a  bit — so  land  that  is  the  pillow." 

He  laid  his  cheek  sideways. 

"Not  really,"  said  I. 

He  came  and  sat  down  again  next  to  me,  and  my 
attention  wandered.  The  q-b  was  raging  for  her  din- 
ner. It  must  be  quite  half-past  eight.  The  kid,  the 
perfect  kid  would  be  cold  and  ruined.  Both  fire  and 
candle  were  burning  low.  Someone  had  been  out  for 
a  new  candle,  but  there  was  evidently  no  means  of  re- 
plenishing the  fire.  The  mate  still  crouched  on  the 
hearth,  the  dull  red  fire-glow  on  his  handsome  face, 
patiently  trying  to  roast  the  kid  and  poking  it  against 
the  embers.  He  had  heavy,  strong  limbs  in  his  khaki 
clothes,  but  his  hand  that  held  the  spit  was  brown  and 
tender  and  sensitive,  a  real  Mediterranean  hand.  The 
girovago,  blond,  round-faced,  mature  and  aggressive 

t  195  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

with  all  his  liveliness,  was  more  like  a  northerner.  In 
the  background  were  four  or  five  other  men,  of  whom 
I  had  distinguished  none  but  a  stout  soldier,  probably 
chief  carabiniere. 

Just  as  the  q-b  was  working  up  to  the  rage  I  had  at 
last  calmed  down  from,  appeared  the  shawl-swathed 
girl  announcing  "Pronto!" 

"Pronto!  Pronto!'  said  everybody. 

"High  time,  too,"  said  the  q-b,  springing  from  the 
low  bench  before  the  fire.  "Where  do  we  eat?  Is 
there  another  room?" 

"There  is  another  room,  Signora,"  said  the  cara- 
biniere. 

So  we  trooped  out  of  the  fire-warmed  dungeon, 
leaving  the  girovago  and  his  mate  and  two  other  men, 
muleteers  from  the  road,  behind  us.  I  could  see  that 
it  irked  my  girovago  to  be  left  behind.  He  was  by  far 
the  strongest  personality  in  the  place,  and  he  had  the 
keenest  intelligence.  So  he  hated  having  to  fall  into 
the  background,  when  he  had  been  dragging  all  the 
lime-light  on  to  himself  all  the  evening.  To  me,  too, 
he  was  something  of  a  kindred  soul  that  night.  But 
there  we  are:  fate,  in  the  guise  of  that  mysterious  di- 
vision between  a  respectable  life  and  a  scamp's  life 
divided  us.  There  was  a  gulf  between  me  and  him, 

[  196  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

between  my  way  and  his.  He  was  a  kindred  spirit — 
but  with  a  hopeless  difference.  There  was  something 
a  bit  sordid  about  him — and  he  knew  it.  That  is  why 
he  was  always  tipsy.  Yet  I  like  the  lone  wolf  souls 
best — better  than  the  sheep.  If  only  they  didn't  feel 
mongrel  inside  themselves.  Presumably  a  scamp  is 
bound  to  be  mongrel.  It  is  a  pity  the  untamable,  lone- 
wolf  souls  should  always  become  pariahs,  almost  of 
choice:  mere  scamps. 

Top  and  bottom  of  it  is,  I  regretted  my  girovago, 
though  I  knew  it  was  no  good  thinking  of  him.  His 
way  was  not  my  way.  Yet  I  regretted  him,  I  did. 

We  found  ourselves  in  a  dining  room  with  a  long 
white  table  and  inverted  soup-plates,  tomb-cold,  lighted 
by  an  acetylene  flare.  Three  men  had  accompanied  us: 
the  carabiniere,  a  little  dark  youth  with  a  small  black 
moustache,  in  a  soldier's  short,  wool-lined  great-coat: 
and  a  young  man  who  looked  tired  round  his  blue 
eyes,  and  who  wore  a  dark-blue  overcoat,  quite  smart. 
The  be-shawled  damsel  came  in  with  the  inevitable 
bowl  of  minestrone,  soup  with  cabbage  and  cauliflower 
and  other  things.  We  helped  ourselves,  and  the  fat 
carabiniere  started  the  conversation  with  the  usual 
questions — and  where  were  we  going  tomorrow? 

I  asked  about  buses.     Then  the  responsible-looking, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

tired-eyed  youth  told  me  he  was  the  bus-driver.  He 
had  come  from  Oristano,  on  the  main  line,  that  day. 
It  is  a  distance  of  some  forty  miles.  Next  morning 
he  was  going  on  over  the  mountains  to  Nuoro — about 
the  same  distance  again.  The  youth  with  the  little 
black  moustache  and  the  Greek,  large  eyes,  was  his  mate, 
the  conductor.  This  was  their  run,  from  Oristano  to 
Nuoro — a  course  of  ninety  miles  or  more.  And  every 
day  on,  on,  on.  No  wonder  he  looked  nerve-tired. 
Yet  he  had  that  kind  of  dignity,  the  wistful  seriousness 
and  pride  of  a  man  in  machine  control:  the  only  god- 
like ones  today,  those  who  pull  the  iron  levers  and  are 
the  gods  in  the  machine. 

They  repeated  what  the  old  roaster  said:  much  nicer 
for  us  to  go  to  Nuoro  than  to  Abbasanta.  So  to  Nuoro 
we  decided  to  go,  leaving  at  half-past  nine  in  the 
morning. 

Every  other  night  the  driver  and  his  mate  spent  in 
this  benighted  Risveglio  inn.  It  must  have  been  their 
bedroom  we  saw,  clean  and  tidy.  I  said  was  the  food 
always  so  late,  was  everything  always  as  bad  as  today. 
Always — if  not  worse,  they  said,  making  light  of  it, 
with  sarcastic  humor  against  the  Risveglio.  You  spent 
your  whole  life  at  the  Risveglio  sitting,  waiting,  and 
going  block-cold:  unless  you  were  content  to  drink 


TO  SORGONO 

aqua  vitae,  like  those  in  there.     The  driver  jerked  his 
head  towards  the  dungeon. 

"Who  were  those  in  there?"  said  I. 

The  one  who  did  all  the  talking  was  a  mercante,  a 
mercante  girovago,  a  wandering  peddler.  This  was 
my  girovago:  a  wandering  peddler  selling  saints  and 
youngsters!  The  other  was  his  mate,  who  helped  carry 
the  pack.  They  went  about  together.  Oh,  my  giro- 
vago was  a  known  figure  all  over  the  country. — And 
where  would  they  sleep?  There,  in  the  room  where 
the  fire  was  dying. 

They  would  unroll  the  mats  and  lie  with  their  feet 
to  the  hearth.  For  this  they  paid  threepence,  or  at 
most  fourpence.  And  they  had  the  privilege  of  cook- 
ing their  own  food.  The  Risveglio  supplied  them 
with  nothing  but  the  fire,  the  roof,  and  the  rush  mat.— 
And,  of  course,  the  drink.  Oh,  we  need  have  no 
sympathy  with  the  girovago  and  his  sort.  They  lacked 
for  nothing.  They  had  everything  they  wanted: 
everything:  and  money  in  abundance.  They  lived  for 
the  aqua  vitae  they  drank.  That  was  all  they  wanted: 
their  continual  allowance  of  aqua  vitae.  And  they  got 
it.  Ah,  they  were  not  cold.  If  the  room  became  cold 
during  the  night:  if  they  had  no  coverings  at  all:  pah, 
they  waited  for  morning,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  light 
fhey  dr^-k  3  large  glass  of  aqua  vitae.  That  was  their 

E   '??  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

fire,  their  hearth  and  their  home:  drink.     Aqua  vitae, 
was  hearth  and  home  to  them. 

I  was  surprised  at  the  contempt,  tolerant  and  yet 
profound,  with  which  these  three  men  in  the  dining- 
room  spoke  of  the  others  in  the  stanza.  How  con- 
temptuous, almost  bitter,  the  driver  was  against  alcohol. 
It  was  evident  he  hated  it.  And  though  we  all  had  our 
bottles  of  dead-cold  dark  wine,  and  though  we  all 
drank:  still,  the  feeling  of  the  three  youths  against 
actual  intoxication  was  deep  and  hostile,  with  a  certain 
burning  moral  dislike  that  is  more  northern  than  Italian. 
And  they  curled  their  lip  with  real  dislike  of  the  giro- 
vago:  his  forwardness,  his  impudent  aggressiveness. 

As  for  the  inn,  yes,  it  was  very  bad.  It  had  been 
quite  good  under  the  previous  proprietors.  But  now — 
they  shrugged  their  shoulders.  The  dirty-breast  and 
the  shawled  girl  were  not  the  owners.  They  were 
merely  conductors  of  the  hotel:  here  a  sarcastic  curl  of 
the  lip.  The  owner  was  a  man  in  the  village — a  young 
man.  A  week  or  two  back,  at  Christmas  time,  there 
had  been  a  roomful  of  men  sitting  drinking  and  roister- 
ing at  this  very  table.  When  in  had  come  the  pro- 
prietor, mad-drunk,  swinging  a  litre  bottle  round  his 
head  and  yelling:  "Out!  Out!  Out,  all  of  you! 
Out,  every  one  of  you!  I  am  proprietor  here*  And 

[  200  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

when  I  want  to  clear  my  house  I  clear  my  house. 
Every  man  obeys — who  doesn't  obey  has  his  brains 
knocked  out  with  this  bottle.  Out,  out,  I  say — Out, 
everyone!"  And  the  men  all  cleared  out.  "But," 
said  the  bus-driver,  "I  told  him  that  when  I  had  paid 
for  my  bed  I  was  going  to  sleep  in  it.  I  was  not  going 
to  be  turned  out  by  him  or  anybody.  And  so  he  came 
down." 

There  was  a  little  silence  from  everybody  after  this 
story.  Evidently  there  was  more  to  it,  that  we  were 
not  to  be  told.  Especially  the  carabiniere  was  silent. 
He  was  a  fat,  not  very  brave  fellow,  though  quite  nice. 

Ah,  but — said  the  little  dark  bus-conductor,  with  hib 
small-featured  swarthy  Greek  face — you  must  not  be 
angry  with  them.  True  the  inn  was  very  bad.  Very 
bad — but  you  must  pity  them,  for  they  are  only  ig- 
norant. Poor  things,  they  are  ignoranti\  Why  be 
angry? 

The  other  two  men  nodded  their  heads  in  agreement 
and  repeated  ignoranti.  They  are  ignoranti.  It  is 
true.  Why  be  angry? 

And  here  the  modern  Italian  spirit  came  out:  the 
endless  pity  for  the  ignorant.  It  is  only  slackness. 
The  pity  makes  the  ignorant  more  ignorant,  and  makes 
the  Risveglio  daily  more  impossible.  If  somebody  let 

[  201  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

a  bottle  buzz  round  the  ears  of  the  dirty-breast,  and 
whipped  the  shawl  from  the  head  of  the  pert  young 
madam  and  sent  her  flying  down  the  tunnel  with  a  flea 
in  her  ear,  we  might  get  some  attention  and  they  might 
find  a  little  self-respect.  But  no:  pity  them,  poor 
ignoranti,  while  they  pull  life  down  and  devour  it  like 
vermin.  Pity  them!  What  they  need  is  not  pity  but 
prods:  they  and  all  their  myriad  of  likes. 

The  be-shawled  appeared  with  a  dish  of  kid.  Need- 
less to  say,  the  ignoranti  had  kept  all  the  best  portions 
for  themselves.  What  arrived  was  five  pieces  of  cold 
roast,  one  for  each  of  us.  Mine  was  a  sort  of  large 
comb  of  ribs  with  a  thin  web  of  meat :  perhaps  an  ounce. 
That  was  all  we  got,  after  watching  the  whole  process. 
There  was  moreover  a  dish  of  strong  boiled  cauliflower, 
which  one  ate,  with  the  coarse  bread,  out  of  sheer  hun- 
ger. After  this  a  bilious  orange.  Simply  one  is  not 
fed  nowadays.  In  the  good  hotels  and  in  the  bad,  one 
is  given  paltry  portions  of  unnourishing  food,  and  one 
goes  unfed. 

v " 

The  bus-driver,  the  only  one  with  an  earnest  soul, 
was  talking  of  the  Sardinians.  Ah,  the  Sardinians! 
They  were  hopeless.  Why — because  they  did  not 
know  how  to  strike.  They,  too,  were  ignoranti.  But 

[   202   ] 


TO  SORGONO 

this  form  of  ignorance  he  found  more  annoying.  They 
simply  did  not  know  what  a  strike  was.  If  you  offered 
them  one  day  ten  francs  a  stint — he  was  speaking  now 
of  the  miners  of  the  Iglesias  region. — No,  no,  no,  they 
would  not  take  it,  they  wanted  twelve  francs.  Go  to 
them  the  next  day  and  offer  them  four  francs  for  half 
a  stint,  and  yes,  yes,  yes,  they  would  take  it.  And 
there  they  were:  ignorant:  ignorant  Sardinians.  They 
absolutely  did  not  know  how  to  strike.  He  was  quite 
sarcastically  hot  about  it.  The  whole  tone  of  these 
three  young  men  was  the  tone  of  sceptical  irony  com- 
mon to  the  young  people  of  our  day  the  world  over. 
Only  they  had — or  at  least  the  driver  had — some  little 
fervour  for  his  strikes  and  his  socialism.  But  it  was  a 
pathetic  fervour:  a  ps-aller  fervour. 

We  talked  about  the  land.  The  war  has  practically 
gutted  Sardinia  of  her  cattle:  so  they  said.  And  now 
the  land  is  being  deserted,  the  arable  land  is  going  back 
to  fallow.  Why?  Why,  says  the  driver,  because  the 
owners  of  the  land  won't  spend  any  capital.  They 
have  got  the  capital  locked  up,  and  the  land  is  dead. 
They  find  it  cheaper  to  let  all  the  arable  go  back  to  fal- 
low, and  raise  a  few  head  of  cattle,  rather  than  to  pay 
high  wages,  grow  corn,  and  get  small  returns. 

Yes,  and  also,  chimes  in  the  carabiniere,  the  peasants 
[  203  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

don't  want  to  work  the  land.  They  hate  the  land. 
They'll  do  anything  to  get  off  the  land.  They  want 
regular  wages,  short  hours,  and  devil  take  the  rest. 
So  they  will  go  into  France  as  navvies,  by  the  huuc ,  ed. 
They  flock  to  Rome,  they  besiege  the  Labor  bureaus, 
they  will  do  the  artificial  Government  navvy-work  at 
a  miserable  five  francs  a  day — a  railway  shunter  having 
at  least  eighteen  francs  a  day — anything,  anything 
rather  than  work  the  land. 

Yes,  and  what  does  the  Government  do!  replies  the 
bus  driver.  They  pull  the  roads  to  pieces  in  order  to 
find  work  for  the  unemployed,  remaking  them,  across 
the  campagna.  But  in  Sardinia,  where  roads  and 
bridges  are  absolutely  wanting,  will  they  do  anything? 
No! 

There  it  is,  however.  The  bus-driver,  with  dark 
shadows  under  his  eyes,  represents  the  intelligent  por- 
tion of  the  conversation.  The  carabiniere  is  soft  and 
will  go  any  way,  though  always  with  some  interest. 
The  little  Greek-looking  conductor  just  does  not  care. 

Enters  another  belated  traveller,  and  takes  a  seat  at 
the  end  of  the  table.  The  be-shawled  brings  him  soup 
and  a  skinny  bit  of  kid.  He  eyes  this  last  with  con- 
tempt, and  fetches  out  of  his  bag  a  large  hunk  of  roast 

[   204  ] 


FONNI 


Jan  Juta 


TO  SORGONO 

pork,  and  bread,  and  black  olives,  thus  proceeding  to 
make  a  proper  meal. 

We  being  without  cigarettes,  the  bus-driver  and  his 
companion  press  them  on  us:  their  beloved  Macedonia 
cigarettes.  The  driver  says  they  are  squisitissimi — 
most,  most  exquisite — so  exquisite  that  all  foreigners 
want  them.  In  truth  I  believe  they  are  exported  to 
Germany  now.  And  they  are  quite  good,  when  they 
really  have  tobacco  in  them.  Usually  they  are  hollow 
tubes  of  paper  which  just  flare  away  under  one's  nose 
and  are  done. 

We  decide  to  have  a  round  drink:  they  choose  the 
precious  aqua  vitae:  the  white  sort  I  think.  At  last  it 
arrives — when  the  little  dark-eyed  one  has  fetched  it. 
And  it  tastes  rather  like  sweetened  petroleum,  with  a 
dash  of  aniseed:  filthy.  Most  Italian  liquors  are  now 
sweet  and  filthy. 

At  length  we  rise  to  go  to  bed.  We  shall  all  meet 
in  the  morning.  And  this  room  is  dead  cold,  with  frost 
outside.  Going  out,  we  glance  into  the  famous  stanza. 
One  figure  alone  lies  stretched  on  the  floor  in  the  almost 
complete  darkness.  A  few  embers  still  glow.  The 
other  men  no  doubt  are  in  the  bar. 

Ah,  the  filthy  bedroom.  The  q-b  ties  up  her  head 
in  a  large,  clean  white  kerchief,  to  avoid  contact  with 
the  unsavoury  pillow.  It  is  a  cold,  hard,  flat  bed,  with 

[  205  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

two  cold,  hard,  flat  blankets.  But  we  are  very  tired. 
Just  as  we  are  going  to  sleep,  however,  weird,  high- 
pitched  singing  starts  below,  very  uncanny — with  a 
refrain  that  is  a  yelp-yelp-yelp!  almost  like  a  dog 
in  angry  pain.  Weird,  almost  gruesome  this  singing 
goes  on,  first  one  voice  and  then  another  and  then  a 
tangle  of  voices.  Again  we  are  roused  by  the  pound- 
ing of  heavy  feet  on  the  corridor  outside,  which  is  as 
hollow  and  resonant  as  a  drum.  And  then  in  the  in- 
fernal crew-yard  outside  a  cock  crows.  Throughout 
the  night — yea,  through  all  the  black  and  frosty  hours 
this  demoniac  bird  screams  its  demon  griefs. 

However,  it  is  morning.  I  gingerly  wash  a  bit  of 
myself  in  the  broken  basin,  and  dry  that  bit  on  a  mus- 
lin veil  which  masquerades  upon  the  chair  as  a  towel. 
The  q-b  contents  herself  with  a  dry  wipe.  And  we 
go  downstairs  in  hopes  of  the  last-night's  milk. 

There  is  no  one  to  be  seen.  It  is  a  cold,  frost-strong, 
clear  morning.  There  is  no  one  in  the  bar.  We  stum- 
ble down  the  dark  tunnel  passage.  The  stanza  is  as  if 
no  man  had  ever  set  foot  in  it:  very  dark,  the  mats 
against  the  wall,  the  fire-place  grey  with  a  handful  of 
long  dead  ash.  Just  like  a  dungeon.  The  dining- 
room  has  the  same  long  table  and  eternal  table-cloth — 

[  206  ] 


TO  SORGONO 

and  our  serviettes,  still  wet,  lying  where  we  shovelled 
them  aside.  So  back  again  to  the  bar. 

And  this  time  a  man  is  drinking  aqua  vitae,  and  the 
dirty-shirt  is  officiating.  He  has  no  hat  on:  and 
extraordinary,  he  has  no  brow  at  all:  just  flat,  straight 
black  hair  slanting  to  his  eyebrows,  no  forehead  at  all. 

Is  there  coffee? 

No,  there  is  no  coffee. 

Why? 

Because  they  can't  get  sugar. 

Ho!  laughs  the  peasant  drinking  aqua  vitae.  You 
make  coffee  with  sugar! 

Here,  say  I,  they  make  it  with  nothing. — Is  there 
milk? 

No. 

No  milk  at  all? 

No. 

Why  not? 

Nobody  brings  it. 

Yes,  yes — there  is  milk  if  they  like  to  get  it,  puts  in 
the  peasant.  But  they  want  you  to  drink  aqua  vitae. 

I  see  myself  drinking  ague  vitae.  My  yesterday's 
rage  towers  up  again  suddenly,  till  it  quite  suffocates 
me.  There  is  something  in  this  unsavoury,  black,  wine- 
dabbled,  thick,  greasy  young  man  that  does  for  me. 

"Why,"  say  I,  lapsing  into  the  Italian  rhetorical  man- 
[  207  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ner,  "why  do  you  keep  an  inn?  Why  do  you  write 
the  word  Ristorante  so  large,  when  you  have  nothing 
to  offer  people,  and  don't  intend  to  have  anything. 
Why  do  you  have  the  impudence  to  take  in  travellers? 
What  does  it  mean,  that  this  is  an  inn?  What,  say, 
what  does  it  mean?  Say  then — what  does  it  mean? 
What  does  it  mean,  your  Ristorante  Risveglio,  written 
so  large?" 

Getting  all  this  out  in  one  breath,  my  indignation  now 
stifled  me.  Him  of  the  shirt  said  nothing  at  all.  The 
peasant  laughed.  I  demanded  the  bill.  It  was 
twenty-five  francs  odd.  I  picked  up  every  farthing  of 
the  change. 

"Won't  you  leave  any  tip  at  all?"  asks  the  q-b. 

"Tip!"  say  I,  speechless. 

So  we  march  upstairs  and  make  tea  to  fill  the  thermos 
flask.  Then,  with  sack  over  my  shoulder,  I  make  my 
way  out  of  the  Risveglio. 

It  is  Sunday  morning.  The  frozen  village  street  is 
almost  empty.  We  march  down  to  the  wider  space 
where  the  bus  stands:  I  hope  they  haven't  the  impu- 
dence to  call  it  a  Piazza. 

"Is  this  the  Nuoro  bus?"  I  ask  of  a  bunch  of  urchins. 

And  even  they  begin  to  jeer.  But  my  sudden  up- 
starting flare  quenches  them  at  once.  One  answers  yes, 

[    208    ] 


TO  SORGONO 

and  they  edge  away.  I  stow  the  sack  and  the  kitchenino 
in  the  first-class  part.  The  first-class  is  in  front:  we 
shall  see  better. 

There  are  men  standing  about,  with  their  hands  in 
their  pockets, — those  who  are  not  in  costume.  Some 
wear  the  black-and-white.  All  wear  the  stocking  caps. 
And  all  have  the  wide  shirt-breasts,  white,  their  waist- 
coats being  just  like  evening  dress  waistcoats.  Imagine 
one  of  these  soft  white  shirt  fronts  well  slobbered,  and 
you  have  mine  host  of  the  Risveglio.  But  these  loung- 
ing, static,  white-breasted  men  are  snowily  clean,  this 
being  Sunday  morning.  They  smoke  their  pipes  on 
the  frosty  air,  and  are  none  too  friendly. 

The  bus  starts  at  half-past  nine.  The  campanile  is 
clanging  nine.  Two  or  three  girls  go  down  the  road 
in  their  Sunday  costume  of  purplish  brown.  We  go 
up  the  road,  into  the  clear,  ringing  frosty  air,  to  find 
the  lane. 

And  again,  from  above,  how  beautiful  it  is  in  the 
sharp  morning !  The  whole  village  lies  in  bluish  shadow, 
the  hills  with  their  thin  pale  oak  trees  are  in  bluish 
shadow  still,  only  in  the  distance  the  frost-glowing  sun 
makes  a  wonderful,  jewel-like  radiance  on  the  pleasant 
hills,  wild  and  thinly-wooded,  of  this  interior  region, 

[  209  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Real  fresh  wonder-beauty  all  around.  And  such 
humanity. 

Returning  to  the  village  we  find  a  little  shop  and  get 
biscuits  and  cigarettes.  And  we  find  our  friends  the 
bus-men.  They  are  shy  this  morning.  They  are 
ready  for  us  when  we  are  ready.  So  in  we  get,  joy- 
fully, to  leave  Sorgono. 

One  thing  I  say  for  it,  it  must  be  an  honest  place. 
For  people  leave  their  sacks  about  without  a  qualm. 

Up  we  go,  up  the  road.  Only  to  stop,  alas,  at  the 
Risveglio.  The  little  conductor  goes  down  the  lane 
towards  the  station.  The  driver  goes  and  has  a  little 
drink  with  a  comrade.  There  is  quite  a  crowd  round 
the  dreary  entrances  of  the  inn.  And  quite  a  little 
bunch  of  people  to  clamber  up  into  the  second  class, 
behind  us. 

We  wait  and  wait.  Then  in  climbs  an  old  peasant, 
in  full  black-and-white  costume,  smiling  in  the  pleased, 
naive  way  of  the  old.  After  him  climbs  a  fresh-faced 
young  man  with  a  suit-case. 

"Na!"  said  the  young  man.  "Now  you  are  in  the 
automobile." 

And  the  old  man  gazes  round  with  the  wondering, 
,  naive  smile. 


TO  SORGONO 

"One  is  all  right  here,  eh?"  the  young  citizen  per- 
sists, patronizing. 

But  the  old  man  is  too  excited  to  answer.  He  gazes 
hither  and  thither.  Then  he  suddenly  remembers  he 
had  a  parcel,  and  looks  for  it  in  fear.  The  bright- 
faced  young  man  picks  it  from  the  floor  and  hands  it 
him.  Ah,  it  is  all  right. 

I  see  the  little  conductor  in  his  dashing,  sheep-lined, 
short  military  overcoat  striding  briskly  down  the  little 
lane  with  the  post-bag.  The  driver  climbs  to  his  seat 
in  front  of  me.  He  has  a  muffler  round  his  neck  and 
his  hat  pulled  down  to  his  ears.  He  pips  at  the  horn, 
and  our  old  peasant  cranes  forward  to  look  how  he 
does  it. 

And  so,  with  a  jerk  and  a  spurt,  we  start  uphill. 

"Eh — rwhat's  that?"  said  the  peasant,  frightened. 

"We're  starting,"  explained  the  bright-faced  young 
man. 

"Starting!      Didn't  we  start  before?" 

The  bright  face  laughs  pleasedly. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Did  you  think  we  had  been  going 
ever  since  you  got  in?" 

"Yes,"  says  the  old  man,  simply,  "since  the  door  was 
shut." 

The  young  citizen  looks  at  us  for  our  joyful  ap- 
proval. 


VI. 
TO   NUORO. 

THESE    automobiles    in    Italy    are  splendid. 
They  take  the  steep,  looping  roads  so  easily, 
they  seem  to  run  so  naturally.     And  this 
one  was  comfortable,  too. 

The  roads  of  Italy  always  impress  me.  They  run 
undaunted  over  the  most  precipitous  regions,  and  with 
curious  ease.  In  England  almost  any  such  road,  among 
the  mountains  at  least,  would  be  labelled  three  times 
dangerous  and  would  be  famous  throughout  the  land 
as  an  impossible  climb.  Here  it  is  nothing.  Up  and 
down  they  go,  swinging  about  with  complete  sang- 
froid. There  seems  to  have  been  no  effort  in  their 
construction.  They  are  so  good,  naturally,  that  one 
hardly  notices  what  splendid  gestures  they  represent. 
Of  course,  the  surface  is  now  often  intolerably  bad. 
And  they  are  most  of  them  roads  which,  with  ten  years' 
neglect,  will  become  ruins.  For  they  are  cut  through 
overhanging  rock  and  scooped  out  of  the  sides  of  hills. 
But  I  think  it  is  marvellous  how  the  Italians  have  pene- 

[    212    ] 


TO  NUORO 

trated  all  their  inaccessible  regions,  of  which  they  have 
so  many,  with  great  high-roads:  and  how  along  these 
high-roads  the  omnibuses  now  keep  up  a  perfect  com- 
munication. The  precipitous  and  craggily-involved 
land  is  threaded  through  and  through  with  roads. 
There  seems  to  be  a  passion  for  high-roads  and  for  con- 
stant communication.  In  this  the  Italians  have  a  real 
Roman  instinct,  now.  For  the  roads  are  new. 

The  railways  too  go  piercing  through  rock  for  miles 
and  miles,  and  nobody  thinks  anything  of  it.  The 
coast  railway  of  Calabria,  down  to  Reggio,  would  make 
us  stand  on  our  heads  if  we  had  it  in  England.  Here 
it  is  a  matter  of  course.  In  the  same  way  I  always  have 
a  profound  admiration  for  their  driving — whether  of 
a  great  omnibus  or  of  a  motor-car.  It  all  seems  so  easy, 
as  if  the  man  were  part  of  the  car.  There  is  none 
of  that  beastly  grinding,  uneasy  feeling  one  has  in  the 
north.  A  car  behaves  like  a  smooth,  live  thing,  sensi- 
bly. 

All  the  peasants  have  a  passion  for  a  high-road. 
They  want  their  land  opening  out,  opening  out.  They 
seem  to  hate  the  ancient  Italian  remoteness.  They  all 
want  to  be  able  to  get  out  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  get 
away — quick,  quick.  A  village  which  is  two  miles  off 
the  high-road,  even  if  it  is  perched  like  a  hawk's  nest 
on  a  peak,  still  chafes  and  chafes  for  the  great  road 

[  213  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

to  come  to  it,  chafes  and  chafes  for  the  daily  motor-bus 
connection  with  the  railway.  There  is  no  placidity,  no 
rest  in  the  heart  of  the  land.  There  is  a  fever  of 
restless  irritation  all  the  time. 

And  yet  the  permanent  way  of  almost  every  railway 
is  falling  into  bad  disrepair,  the  roads  are  shocking. 
And  nothing  seems  to  be  done.  Is  our  marvellous, 
mechanical  era  going  to  have  so  short  a  bloom?  Is 
the  marvellous  openness,  the  opened-out  wonder  of  the 
land  going  to  collapse  quite  soon,  and  the  remote  places 
lapse  back  into  inaccessibility  again?  Who  knows!  I 
rather  hope  so. 

The  automobile  took  us  rushing  and  winding  up  the 
hill,  sometimes  through  cold,  solid-seeming  shadow, 
sometimes  across  a  patch  of  sun.  There  was  thin, 
bright  ice  in  the  ruts,  and  deep  grey  hoar-frost  on  the 
grass.  I  cannot  tell  how  the  sight  of  the  grass  and 
bushes  heavy  with  frost,  and  wild — in  their  own  prim- 
itive wildness  charmed  me.  The  slopes  of  the  steep 
wild  hills  came  down  shaggy  and  bushy,  with  a  few  ber- 
ries lingering,  and  the  long  grass-stalks  sere  with  the 
frost.  Again  the  dark  valley  sank  below  like  a  ravine, 
but  shaggy,  bosky,  unbroken.  It  came  upon  me  how 
I  loved  the  sight  of  the  blue-shadowed,  tawny-tangled 
winter  with  its  frosty  standstill.  The  young  oaks  keep 

[  "4  ] 


TO  NUORO 

their  brown  leaves.     And  doing  so,  surely  they  are  best 
with  a  thin  edge  of  rime. 

One  begins  to  realize  how  old  the  real  Italy  is,  how 
man-gripped,  and  how  withered.  England  is  far  more 
wild  and  savage  and  lonely,  in  her  country  parts.  Here 
since  endless  centuries  man  has  tamed  the  impossible 
mountain  side  into  trerraces,  he  has  quarried  the  rock, 
he  has  fed  his  sheep  among  the  thin  woods,  he  has  cut 
his  boughs  and  burnt  his  charcoal,  he  has  been  half 
domesticated  even  among  the  wildest  fastnesses.  This 
is  what  is  so  attractive  about  the  remote  places,  the 
Abruzzi,  for  example.  Life  is  so  primitive,  so  pagan, 
so  strangely  heathen  and  half-savage.  And  yet  it  is 
human  life.  And  the  wildest  country  is  half  human- 
ized, half  brought  under.  It  is  all  conscious.  Wher- 
ever one  is  in  Italy,  either  one  is  conscious  of  the  pres- 
ent, or  of  the  mediaeval  influences,  or  of  the  far,  mys- 
terious gods  of  the  early  Mediterranean.  Wherever 
one  is,  the  place  has  its  conscious  genus.  Man  has  lived 
there  and  brought  forth  his  consciousness  there  and  in 
some  way  brought  that  place  to  consciousness,  given 
it  its  expression,  and,  really,  finished  it.  The  expression 
may  be  Proserpine,  or  Pan,  or  even  the  strange 
"shrouded  gods"  of  the  Etruscans  or  the  Sikels,  none 
the  less  it  is  an  expression.  The  land  has  been  human- 
ised, through  and  through:  and  we  in  our  own  tissued 

[  315  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

consciousness  bear  the  results  of  this  humanisation.  So 
that  for  us  to  go  to  Italy  and  to  penetrate  into  Italy  is 
like  a  most  fascinating  act  of  self -disco  very — back,  back 
down  the  old  ways  of  time.  Strange  and  wonderful 
chords  awake  in  us,  and  vibrate  again  after  many  hun- 
dreds of  years  of  complete  forgetfulness. 

And  then — and  then — there  is  a  final  feeling  of 
sterility.  It  is  all  worked  out.  It  is  all  known:  connut 
connu! 

This  Sunday  morning,  seeing  the  frost  among  the 
tangled,  still  savage  bushes  of  Sardinia,  my  soul  thrilled 
again.  This  was  not  all  known.  This  was  not  all 
worked  out.  Life  was  not  only  a  process  of  rediscov- 
ering backwards.  It  is  that,  also:  and  it  is  that  in- 
tensely. Italy  has  given  me  back  I  know  not  what  of 
myself,  but  a  very,  very  great  deal.  She  has  found 
for  me  so  much  that  was  lost:  like  a  restored  Osiris. 
But  this  morning  in  the  omnibus  I  realize  that,  apart 
from  the  great  rediscovery  backwards,  which  one  must 
make  before  one  can  be  whole  at  all,  there  is  a  move 
forwards.  There  are  unknown,  unworked  lands  where 
the  salt  has  not  lost  its  savour.  But  one  must  have  per- 
fected oneself  in  the  great  past  first. 

If  one  travels  one  eats.  We  immediately  began  to 
munch  biscuits,  and  the  old  peasant  in  his  white,  baggy 

[  216  ] 


TO  NUORO 

breeches  and  black  cuirass,  his  old  face  smiling  wonder- 
ingly  under  his  old  stocking  cap,  although  he  was  only 
going  to  Tonara,  some  seven  or  eight  miles,  began  to 
peel  himself  a  hard-boiled  egg,  which  he  got  out  of 
his  parcel.  With  calm  wastefulness  he  peeled  away 
the  biggest  part  of  the  white  of  the  egg  with  the  shell — 
because  it  came  away  so.  The  citizen  of  Nuoro,  for 
such  the  bright-faced  young  man  was,  said  to  him — 
"But  see  how  you  waste  it." — "Ha!"  said  the  old 
peasant,  with  a  reckless  indifferent  wave  of  the  hand. 
What  did  he  care  how  much  he  wasted,  since  he  was 
en  voyage  and  riding  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  in  an 
automobile. 

The  citizen  of  Nuoro  told  us  he  had  some  sort  of 
business  in  Sorgono,  so  he  came  back  and  forth  con- 
stantly. The  peasant  did  some  work  or  other  for  him 
— or  brought  him  something  down  from  Tonara.  He 
was  a  pleasant,  bright-eyed  young  man,  and  he  made 
nothing  of  eight  hours  in  a  motor-bus. 

He  told  us  there  was  still  game  among  these  hills: 
wild  boars  which  were  hunted  in  big  hunts,  and  many 
hares.  It  was  a  curious  and  beautiful  sight,  he  said, 
to  see  a  hare  at  night  fascinated  by  the  flare  of  the 
lamps  of  the  automobile,  racing  ahead  with  its  ears  back, 
always  keeping  in  front,  inside  the  beam,  and  flying 

[  217  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

like  mad,  on  and  on  ahead,  till  at  some  hill  it  gathered 
speed  and  melted  into  the  dark. 

We  descended  into  a  deep,  narrow  valley  to  the  road- 
junction  and  the  canteen-house,  then  up  again,  up  and 
up  sharp  to  Tonara,  our  village  we  had  seen  in  the  sun 
yesterday.  But  we  were  approaching  it  from  the  back. 
As  we  swerved  into  the  sunlight,  the  road  took  a  long 
curve  on  to  the  open  ridge  between  two  valleys.  And 
there  in  front  we  saw  a  glitter  of  scarlet  and  white. 
It  was  in  slow  motion.  It  was  a  far-off  procession, 
scarlet  figures  of  women,  and  a  tall  image  moving 
away  from  us,  slowly,  in  the  Sunday  morning.  It  was 
passing  along  the  level  sunlit  ridge  above  a  deep,  hol- 
low valley.  A  close  procession  of  women  glittering 
in  scarlet,  white  and  black,  moving  slowly  in  the  dis- 
tance beneath  the  grey-yellow  buildings  of  the  village 
on  the  crest,  towards  an  isolated  old  church:  and  all 
along  this  narrow  upland  saddle  as  on  a  bridge  of  sun- 
shine itself. 

Were  we  not  going  to  see  any  more?  The  bus 
turned  again  and  rushed  along  the  now  level  road  and 
then  veered.  And  there  beyond,  a  little  below,  we 
saw  the  procession  coming.  The  bus  faded  to  a  stand- 
still, and  we  climbed  out.  Above  us,  old  and  mel- 
lowed among  the  smooth  rocks  and  the  bits  of  flat  grass 

[  218  ] 


TO  NUORO 

was  the  church,  tanging  its  bell.  Just  in  front,  above, 
were  old,  half-broken  houses  of  stone.  The  road  came 
gently  winding  up  to  us,  from  what  was  evidently  two 
villages  ledged  one  above  the  other  upon  the  steep 
summit  of  the  south  slope.  Far  below  was  the  south 
valley,  with  a  white  puff  of  engine  steam. 

And  slowly  chanting  in  the  near  distance,  curving  slow- 
ly up  to  us  on  the  white  road  between  the  grass  came 
the  procession.  The  high  morning  was  still.  We 
stood  all  on  this  ridge  above  the  world,  with  the  deeps 
of  silence  below  on  the  right.  And  in  a  strange,  brief, 
staccato  monody  chanted  the  men,  and  in  quick,  light 
rustle  of  women's  voices  came  the  responses.  Again 
the  men's  voices!  The  white  was  mostly  men,  not 
women.  The  priest  in  his  robes,  his  boys  near  him, 
was  leading  the  chanting.  Immediately  behind  him 
came  a  small  cluster  of  bare-headed,  tall,  sunburnt 
men,  all  in  golden-velveteen  corduroy,  mountain- 
peasants,  bowing  beneath  a  great  life-size  seated  image 
of  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua.  After  these  a  number  of 
men  in  the  costume,  but  with  the  white  linen  breeches 
hanging  wide  and  loose  almost  to  the  ankles,  instead 
of  being  tucked  into  the  black  gaiters.  So  they  seemed 
very  white  beneath  the  black  kilt  frill.  The  black 
frieze  body-vest  was  cut  low,  like  an  evening  suit,  and 
the  stocking  caps  were  variously  perched.  The  men 

[   219   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

chanted  in  low,  hollow,  melodic  tones.  Then  came  the 
rustling  chime  of  the  women.  And  the  procession 
crept  slowly,  aimlessly  forward  in  time  with  the 
chant.  The  great  image  rode  rigid,  and  rather  foolish. 
After  the  men  was  a  little  gap — and  then  the  brilliant 
wedge  of  the  women.  They  were  packed  two  by  two, 
close  on  each  other's  heels,  chanting  inadvertently  when 
their  turn  came,  and  all  in  brilliant,  beautiful  costume. 
In  front  were  the  little  girl-children,  two  by  two,  im- 
mediately following  the  tall  men  in  peasant  black-and- 
white.  Children,  demure  and  conventional,  in  ver- 
milion, white  and  green — little  girl-children  with  long 
skirts  of  scarlet  cloth  down  to  their  feet,  green-banded 
near  the  bottom :  with  white  aprons  bordered  with  vivid 
green  and  mingled  colour:  having  little  scarlet,  purple- 
bound,  open  boleros  over  the  full  white  shirts:  and 
black  head-cloths  folded  across  their  little  chins,  just 
leaving  the  lips  clear,  the  face  framed  in  black.  Won- 
derful little  girl-children,  perfect  and  demure  in  the 
stiffish,  brilliant  costume,  with  black  head-dress!  Stiff 
as  Velasquez  princesses!  The  bigger  girls  followed, 
and  then  the  mature  women,  a  close  procession.  The 
long  vermilion  skirts  with  their  green  bands  at  the  bot- 
tom flashed  a  solid  moving  mass  of  colour,  softly  swing- 
ing, and  the  white  aprons  with  their  band  of  brilliant 
mingled  green  seemed  to  gleam.  At  the  throat  the 

[   220  ] 


TO  NUORO 

full-bosomed  white  shirts  were  fastened  with  big  studs 
of  gold  filigree,  two  linked  filigree  globes:  and  the 
great  white  sleeves  billowed  from  the  scarlet,  purplish- 
and-green-edged  boleros.  The  faces  came  nearer  to 
us,  framed  all  round  in  the  dark  cloths.  All  the  lips 
still  sang  responses,  but  all  the  eyes  watched  us.  So 
the  softly-swaying  coloured  body  of  the  procession  came 
up  to  us.  The  poppy-scarlet  smooth  cloth  rocked  in 
fusion,  the  bands  and  bars  of  emerald  green  seemed  to 
burn  across  the  red  and  the  showy  white,  the  dark  eyes 
peered  and  stared  at  us  from  under  the  black  snood, 
gazed  back  at  us  with  raging  curiosity,  while  the  lips 
moved  automatically  in  chant.  The  bus  had  run  into 
the  inner  side  of  the  road,  and  the  procession  had  to 
press  round  it,  towards  the  sky-line,  the  great  valley 
lying  below. 

The  priest  stared,  hideous  St.  Anthony  cockled  a  bit 
as  he  passed  the  butt  end  of  the  big  grey  automobile, 
the  peasant  men  in  gold-coloured  corduroy,  old,  washed 
soft,  were  sweating  under  the  load  and  still  singing 
with  opened  lips,  the  loose  white  breeches  of  the  men 
waggled  as  they  walked  on  with  their  hands  behind 
their  backs,  turning  again,  to  look  at  us.  The  big, 
hard  hands,  folded  behind  black  kilt-frill!  The 
women,  too,  shuffled  slowly  past,  rocking  the  scarlet 
and  the  bars  of  green,  and  all  twisting  as  they  sang,  to 

[    221    ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

look  at  us  still  more.  And  so  the  procession  edged  past 
the  bus,  and  was  trailing  upwards,  curved  solid  against 
the  sky-line  towards  the  old  church.  From  behind, 
the  geranium  scarlet  was  intense,  one  saw  the  careful, 
curiously  cut  backs  of  the  shapen  boleros,  poppy-red, 
edged  with  mauve-purple  and  green,  and  the  white  of 
the  shirt  just  showing  at  the  waist.  The  full  sleeves 
billowed  out,  the  black  head-cloths  hung  down  to  a 
point.  The  pleated  skirts  swing  slowly,  the  broad 
band  of  green  accentuating  the  motion.  Indeed  that 
is  what  it  must  be  for,  this  thick,  rich  band  of  jewel 
green,  to  throw  the  wonderful  horizontal  motion  back 
and  forth,  back  and  forth,  of  the  suave  vermilion,  and 
give  that  static,  Demeta  splendor  to  a  peasant  motion, 
so  magnificent  in  colour,  geranium  and  malachite. 

All  the  costumes  were  not  exactly  alike.  Some  had 
more  green,  some  had  less.  In  some  the  sleeveless 
boleros  were  of  a  darker  red,  and  some  had  poorer 
aprons,  without  such  gorgeous  bands  at  the  bottom. 
And  some  were  evidently  old:  probably  thirty  years 
old:  still  perfect  and  in  keeping,  reserved  for  Sunday 
and  high  holidays.  A  few  were  darker,  ruddier  than 
the  true  vermilion.  This  varying  of  the  tone  intensi- 
fied the  beauty  of  the  shuffling  woman-host. 

When  they  had  filed  into  the  grey,  forlorn  little 
[   222   ] 


TO  NUORO 

church  on  the  ridge-top  just  above  us,  the  bus  started 
silently  to  run  on  to  the  rest-point  below,  whilst  we 
climbed  back  up  the  little  rock-track  to  the  church. 
When  we  came  to  the  side-door  we  found  the  church 
quite  full.  Level  with  us  as  we  stood  in  the  open 
side  doorway,  we  saw  kneeling  on  the  bare  stoneflags 
the  little  girl-children,  and  behind  them  all  the  women 
clustered  kneeling  upon  their  aprons,  with  hands  negli- 
gently folded,  filling  the  church  to  the  further  door- 
way, where  the  sun  shone:  the  bigger  west-end  door- 
way. In  the  shadow  of  the  whitewashed,  bare  church 
all  these  kneeling  women  with  their  colour  and  their 
black  head-cloths  looked  like  some  thick  bed  of  flowers, 
geranium,  black  hooded  above.  They  all  knelt  on  the 
naked,  solid  stone  of  the  pavement. 

There  was  a  space  in  front  of  the  geranium  little 
girl-children,  then  the  men  in  corduroys,  gold-soft, 
with  dark  round  heads,  kneeling  awkwardly  in  rever- 
ence j  and  then  the  queer,  black  cuirasses  and  full  white 
sleeves  of  grey-headed  peasant  men,  many  bearded. 
Then  just  in  front  of  them  the  priest  in  his  white  vest- 
ment, standing  exposed,  and  just  baldly  beginning  an 
address.  At  the  side  of  the  altar  was  seated  large  and 
important  the  modern,  simpering,  black-gowned  An- 
thony of  Padua,  nursing  a  boy-child.  He  looked  a 
sort  of  male  Madonna. 

[  223   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Now,"  the  priest  was  saying,  "blessed  Saint 
Anthony  shows  you  in  what  way  you  can  be  Christians. 
It  is  not  enough  that  you  are  not  Turks.  Some  think 
they  are  Christians  because  they  are  not  Turks.  It 
is  true  you  are  none  of  you  Turks.  But  you  have  still 
to  learn  how  to  be  good  Christians.  And  this  you 
can  learn  from  our  blessed  Saint  Anthony.  Saint 
Anthony,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  ." 

The  contrast  between  Turks  and  Christians  is  still 
forceful  in  the  Mediterranean,  where  the  Mohamme- 
dans have  left  such  a  mark.  But  how  the  word 
cristiani,  cristiamy  spoken  with  a  peculiar  priestly  unc- 
tion, gets  on  my  nerves.  The  voice  is  barren  in  its 
homily.  And  the  women  are  all  intensely  watching 
the  q-b  and  me  in  the  doorway,  their  folded  hands  are 
very  negligently  held  together. 

"Come  away!"  say  I.  "Come  away,  and  let  them 
listen." 

We  left  the  church  crowded  with  its  kneeling  host, 
and  dropped  down  past  the  broken*  houses  towards  the 
omnibus,  which  stood  on  a  sort  of  level  out-look  place, 
a  levelled  terrace  with  a  few  trees,  standing  silent  over 
the  valley.  It  should  be  picketed  with  soldiers  hav- 
ing arquebuses.  And  I  should  have  welcomed  a  few 

[  224  ] 


TO  NUORO 

thorough-paced  infidels,  as  a  leaven  to  this  dreary 
Christianity  of  ours. 

But  it  was  a  wonderful  place.  Usually,  the  life- 
level  is  reckoned  as  sea-level.  But  here,  in  the  heart 
of  Sardinia,  the  life-level  is  high  as  the  golden-lit 
plateau,  and  the  sea-level  is  somewhere  far  away,  be- 
low, in  the  gloom,  it  does  not  signify.  The  life-level  is 
high  up,  high  and  sun-sweetened  and  among  rocks. 

We  stood  and  looked  below,  at  the  puff  of  steam, 
far  down  the  wooded  valley  where  we  had  come  yes- 
terday. There  was  an  old,  low  house  on  this  eagle- 
perching  piazza.  I  would  like  to  live  there.  The 
real  village — or  rather  two  villages,  like  an  ear-ring 
and  its  pendant — lay  still  beyond,  in  front,  ledging 
near  the  summit  of  the  long,  long,  steep  wooded  slope, 
that  never  ended  till  it  ran  flush  to  the  depths  away 
below  there  in  shadow. 

And  yesterday,  up  this  slope  the  old  peasant  had 
come  with  his  two  brilliant  daughters  and  the  pack- 
pony. 

And  somewhere  in  those  ledging,  pearly  villages  in 
front  must  be  my  girovago  and  his  "wife".  I  wish 
I  could  see  their  stall  and  drink  aqua  vitae  with  them. 

"How  beautiful  the  procession!"  says  the  q-b  to  the 
driver. 

[  225   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"Ah  yes — one  of  the  most  beautiful  costumes  of 
Sardinia,  this  of  Tonara,"  he  replied  wistfully. 

The  bus  sets  off  again — minus  the  old  peasant.  We 
retrace  our  road.  A  woman  is  leading  a  bay  pony  past 
the  church,  striding  with  long  strides,  so  that  her  maroon 
skirt  swings  like  a  fan,  and  hauling  the  halter  rope. 
Apparently  the  geranium  red  costume  is  Sunday  only, 
the  week-day  is  this  maroon,  or  puce,  or  madder- 
brown. 

Quickly  and  easily  the  bus  slips  down  the  hill  into 
the  valley.  Wild,  narrow  valleys,  with  trees,  and 
brown-legged  cork  trees.  Across  the  other  side  a  black 
and  white  peasant  is  working  alone  on  a  tiny  terrace 
of  the  hill-side,  a  small,  solitary  figure,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  magpie  in  the  distance.  These  people  like 
being  alone — solitary — one  sees  a  single  creature  so 
often  isolated  among  the  wilds.  This  is  different  from 
Sicily  and  Italy,  where  the  people  simply  cannot  be 
alone.  They  must  be  in  twos  and  threes. 

But  it  is  Sunday  morning,  and  the  worker  is  excep- 
tional. Along  the  road  we  pass  various  pedestrians, 
men  in  their  black  sheepskins,  boys  in  their  soldiers' 
remains.  They  are  trudging  from  one  village  to  an- 
other, across  the  wild  valleys.  And  there  is  a  sense  of 
Sunday  morning  freedom,  of  roving,  as  in  an  English 

[  226  ] 


TO  NUORO 

countryside.  Only  the  one  old  peasant  works  alone: 
and  a  goatherd  watching  his  long-haired,  white  goats. 
Beautiful  the  goats  are:  and  so  swift.  They  fly- 
like  white  shadows  along  the  road  from  us,  then  dart 
downhill.  I  see  one  standing  on  a  bough  of  an  oak- 
tree,  right  in  the  tree,  an  enormous  white  tree-creature 
complacently  munching  up  aloft,  then  rearing  on  her 
hind  legs,  so  lengthy,  and  putting  her  slim  paws  far 
away  on  an  upper,  forward  branch. 

Whenever  we  come  to  a  village  we  stop  and  get 
down,  and  our  little  conductor  disappears  into  the  post- 
office  for  the  post-bag.  This  last  is  usually  a  limp 
affair,  containing  about  three  letters.  The  people 
crowd  round — and  many  of  them  in  very  ragged  cos- 
tume. They  look  poor,  and  not  attractive:  perhaps  a 
bit  degenerate.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  Italian  instinct 
to  get  into  rapid  touch  with  the  world  were  the  healthy 
instinct  after  all.  For  in  these  isolated  villages,  which 
have  been  since  time  began  far  from  any  life-centre, 
there  is  an  almost  sordid  look  on  the  faces  of  the  peo- 
ple. We  must  remember  that  the  motor-bus  is  a  great 
innovation.  It  has  been  running  for  five  weeks  only. 
I  wonder  for  how  many  months  it  will  continue. 

For  I  am  sure  it  cannot  pay.  Our  first-class  tickets 
cost,  I  believe,  about  twenty-seven  francs  each.  The 

[  227  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

second  class  costs  about  three-quarters  the  first.  Some 
parts  of  the  journey  we  were  very  few  passengers. 
The  distance  covered  is  so  great,  the  population  so  thin, 
that  even  granted  the  passion  for  getting  out  of  their 
own  villages,  which  possesses  all  people  now,  still  the 
bus  cannot  earn  much  more  than  an  average  of  two  hun- 
dred to  three  hundred  francs  a  day.  Which,  with  two 
men's  wages,  and  petrol  at  its  enormous  price,  and  the 
cost  of  wear-and-tear,  cannot  possibly  pay. 

I  asked  the  driver.  He  did  not  tell  me  what  his 
wages  were:  I  did  not  ask  him.  But  he  said  the  com- 
pany paid  for  the  keep  and  lodging  for  himself  and  mate 
at  the  stopping-places.  This  being  Sunday,  fewer  peo- 
ple were  travelling:  a  statement  hard  to  believe.  Once 
he  had  carried  fifty  people  all  the  way  from  Tonara  to 
Nuoro.  Once!  But  it  was  in  vain  he  protested.  Ah 
well,  he  said,  the  bus  carried  the  post,  and  the  govern- 
ment paid  a  subsidy  of  so  many  thousands  of  lire  a  year: 
a  goodly  number.  Apparently  then  the  government 
was  the  loser,  as  usual.  And  there  are  hundreds,  if 
not  thousands  of  these  omnibuses  running  the  lonely 
districts  of  Italy  and  Sicily — Sardinia  had  a  network  of 
systems.  They  are  splendid — and  they  are  perhaps 
an  absolute  necessity  for  a  nervous  restless  population 
which  simply  cannot  keep  still,  and  which  finds  some 

[    228    ] 


TO  NUORO 

relief  in  being  whirled  about  even  on  the  autovie,  as 
the  bus-system  is  called. 

The  autovie  are  run  by  private  companies,  only  sub- 
sidised by  the  government. 

On  we  rush,  through  the  morning — and  at  length 
see  a  large  village,  high  on  the  summit  beyond,  stony 
on  the  high  upland.  But  it  has  a  magical  look,  as 
these  tiny  summit-cities  have  from  the  distance.  They 
recall  to  me  always  my  childish  visions  of  Jerusalem, 
high  against  the  air,  and  seeming  to  sparkle,  and  built 
in  sharp  cubes. 

It  is  curious  what  a  difference  there  is  between  the 
high,  fresh,  proud  villages  and  the  valley  villages. 
Those  that  crown  the  world  have  a  bright,  flashing  air, 
as  Tonara  had.  Those  that  lie  down  below,  infolded 
in  the  shadow,  have  a  gloomy,  sordid  feeling  and  a 
repellent  population,  like  Sorgono  and  other  places  at 
which  we  had  halted.  The  judgment  may  be  all 
wrong:  but  this  was  the  impression  I  got. 

We  were  now  at  the  highest  point  of  the  journey. 
The  men  we  saw  on  the  road  were  in  their  sheepskins, 
and  some  were  even  walking  with  their  faces  shawl- 
muffled.  Glancing  back,  we  saw  up  the  valley  clefts 
the  snow  of  Gennargentu  once  more,  a  white  mantle  on 
broad  shoulders,  the  very  core  of  Sardinia.  The  bus 

[  229  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

slid  to  a  standstill  in  a  high  valley,  beside  a  stream 
where  the  road  from  Fonni  joined  ours.  There  was 
waiting  a  youth  with  a  bicycle.  I  would  like  to  go  to 
Fonni.  They  say  it  is  the  highest  village  in  Sardinia. 

In  front,  on  the  broad  summit,  reared  the  towers  of 
Gavoi.  This  was  the  half-way  halt,  where  the  buses 
had  their  coincidenza,  and  where  we  would  stay  for  an 
hour  and  eat.  We  wound  up  and  up  the  looping  road, 
and  at  last  entered  the  village.  Women  came  to  the 
doors  to  look.  They  were  wearing  the  dark  madder- 
brown  costume.  Men  were  hastening,  smoking  their 
pipes,  towards  our  stopping  place. 

We  saw  the  other  bus — a  little  crowd  of  people — 
and  we  drew  up  at  last.  We  were  tired  and  hungry. 
We  were  at  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  we  entered  quickly. 
And  in  an  instant,  what  a  difference!  At  the  clean  lit- 
tle bar,  men  were  drinking  cheerfully.  A  side  door 
led  into  the  common  room.  And  how  charming  it  was. 
In  a  very  wide  chimney,  white  and  stone-clean,  with  a 
lovely  shallow  curve  above,  was  burning  a  fire  of  long, 
clean-split  faggots,  laid  horizontally  on  the  dogs.  A 
clean,  clear  bright  fire,  with  odd  little  chairs  in  front, 
very  low,  for  us  to  sit  on.  The  funny,  low  little  chairs 
seem  a  specialty  of  this  region. 

The  floor  of  this  room  was  paved  with  round  dark 
[  230  ] 


TO  NUORO 

pebbles,  beautifully  clean.  On  the  walls  hung  brilliant 
copper  fans,  glittering  against  the  whitewash.  And 
under  the  long,  horizontal  window  that  looked  on  the 
street  was  a  stone  slab  with  sockets  for  little  charcoal 
fires.  The  curve  of  the  chimney  arch  was  wide  and 
shallow,  the  curve  above  the  window  was  still  wider, 
and  of  a  similar  delicate  shallowness,  the  white  roof 
rose  delicately  vaulted.  With  the  glitter  of  copper, 
the  expanse  of  dark,  rose-coloured,  pebbled  floor,  the 
space,  the  few  low,  clean-gleaming  faggots,  it  was 
really  beautiful.  We  sat  and  warmed  ourselves,  wel- 
comed by  a  plump  hostess  and  a  pleasant  daughter,  both 
in  madder-brown  dress  and  full  white  shirt.  People 
strayed  in  and  out,  through  the  various  doors.  The 
houses  are  built  without  any  plan  at  all,  the  rooms 
just  happening,  here  or  there.  A  bitch  came  from  an 
inner  darkness  and  stood  looking  at  the  fire,  then 
looked  up  at  me,  smiling  in  her  bitch-like,  complacent 
fashion. 

But  we  were  dying  with  hunger.  What  was  there 
to  eat? — and  was  it  nearly  ready?  There  was 
cinghiale,  the  pleasant,  hard-cheeked  girl  told  us,  and 
it  was  nearly  ready.  Cinghiale  being  wild  boar,  we 
sniffed  the  air.  The  girl  kept  tramping  rather  feck- 
lessly  back  and  forth,  with  a  plate  or  a  serviette:  and 

[  231  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

at  last  it  was  served.  We  went  through  the  dark  inner 
place,  which  was  apparently  the  windowless  bit  left 
over,  inside,  when  the  hap-hazard  rooms  were  made 
round  about,  and  from  thence  into  a  large,  bare,  darkish 
pebbled  room  with  a  white  table  and  inverted  soup- 
plates.  It  was  deathly  cold.  The  window  looked 
north  over  the  wintry  landscape  of  the  highlands,  fields, 
stone  walls,  and  rocks.  Ah,  the  cold,  motionless  air 
of  the  room. 

But  we  were  quite  a  party:  the  second  bus-driver  and 
his  mate,  a  bearded  traveller  on  the  second  bus,  with 
his  daughter,  ourselves,  the  bright-faced  citizen  from 
Nuoro,  and  our  driver.  Our  little  dark-eyed  con- 
ductor did  not  come.  It  dawned  on  me  later  he  could 
not  afford  to  pay  for  this  meal,  which  was  not  included 
in  his  wage. 

The  Nuoro  citizen  conferred  with  our  driver — who 
looked  tired  round  the  eyes — and  made  the  girl  pro- 
duce a  tin  of  sardines.  These  were  opened  at  table 
with  a  large  pocket-knife  belonging  to  the  second  con- 
ductor. He  was  a  reckless,  odd,  hot-foot  fellow  whom 
I  liked  very  much.  But  I  was  terrified  at  the  way  he 
carved  the  sardine-box  with  his  jack-knife.  However, 
we  could  eat  and  drink. 

Then  came  the  brodo,  the  broth,  in  a  great  bowl. 
This  was  boiling  hot,  and  very,  very  strong.  It  was, 


TO  NUORO 

perfectly  plain,  strong  meat-stock,  without  vegetables. 
But  how  good  and  invigorating  it  was,  and  what  an 
abundance!  We  drank  it  down,  and  ate  the  good, 
cold  bread. 

Then  came  the  boar  itself.  Alas,  it  was  a  bowl  of 
hunks  of  dark,  rather  coarse  boiled  meat,  from  which 
the  broth  had  been  made.  It  was  quite  dry,  without 
fat.  I  should  have  been  very  puzzled  to  know  what 
meat  it  was,  if  I  had  not  been  told.  Sad  that  the  wild 
boar  should  have  received  so  little  culinary  attention. 
However,  we  ate  the  hunks  of  hot,  dry  meat  with 
bread,  and  were  glad  to  get  them.  They  were  filling, 
at  least.  And  there  was  a  bowl  of  rather  bitter  green 
olives  for  a  condiment. 

The  Nuoro  citizen  now  produced  a  huge  bottle  of 
wine,  which  he  said  was  finissimo,  and  refused  to  let 
us  go  on  with  the  dark  wine  on  the  table,  of  which 
every  guest  was  served  with  a  bottle.  So  we  drank  up, 
and  were  replenished  with  the  redder,  lighter,  finer 
Sorgono  wine.  It  was  very  good. 

The  second  bus-conductor  also  did  not  eat  the  inn 
meal.  He  produced  a  vast  piece  of  bread,  good,  home- 
made bread,  and  at  least  half  of  a  roast  lamb,  and  a 
large  paper  of  olives.  This  lamb  he  insisted  on  sending 
round  the  table,  waving  his  knife  and  fork  with  dra- 
matic gestures  at  every  guest,  insisting  that  every 

[  233  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

guest  should  take  a  hunk.  So  one  by  one  we  all  helped 
ourselves  to  the  extraordinarily  good  cold  roast  lamb, 
and  to  the  olives.  Then  the  bus-conductor  fell  to  as 
well.  There  was  a  mass  of  meat  still  left  to  him. 

It  is  extraordinary  how  generous  and,  from  the  in- 
side, well-bred  these  men  were.  To  be  sure  the  sec- 
ond conductor  waved  his  knife  and  fork  and  made 
bitter  faces  if  one  of  us  took  only  a  little  bit  of  the 
lamb.  He  wanted  us  to  take  more.  But  the  essential 
courtesy  in  all  of  them  was  quite  perfect,  so  manly  and 
utterly  simple.  Just  the  same  with  the  q-b.  They 
treated  her  with  a  sensitive,  manly  simplicity,  which 
one  could  not  but  be  thankful  for.  They  made  none 
of  the  odious  politenesses  which  are  so  detestable  in 
well-brought-up  people.  They  made  no  advances  and 
did  none  of  the  hateful  homage  of  the  adulating  male. 
They  were  quiet,  and  kind,  and  sensitive  to  the  natural 
flow  of  life,  and  quite  without  airs.  I  liked  them  ex- 
tremely. Men  who  can  be  quietly  kind  and  simple  to 
a  woman,  without  wanting  to  show  off  or  to  make  an 
impression,  they  are  men  still.  They  were  neither 
humble  nor  conceited.  They  did  not  show  off.  And 
oh  God,  what  a  blessed  relief,  to  be  with  people  who 
don't  bother  to  show  off.  We  sat  at  that  table  quietly 
and  naturally  as  if  we  were  by  ourselves,  and  talked 
or  listened  to  their  talk,  just  as  it  happened.  When 

[   234  ] 


TO  NUORO 

we  did  not  want  to  talk,  they  took  no  notice  of  us. 
And  that  I  call  good  manners.  Middle-class,  showing 
off  people  would  have  found  them  uncouth.  I  found 
them  almost  the  only  really  well-bred  people  I  have 
met.  They  did  not  show  off  in  any  way  at  all,  not 
even  a  show  of  simplicity.  They  knew  that  in  the 
beginning  and  in  the  end  a  man  stands  alone,  his  soul 
is  alone  in  itself,  and  all  attributes  are  nothing — and 
this  curious  final  knowledge  preserved  them  in  simplic- 
ity. 

When  we  had  had  coffee  and  were  going  out,  I 
found  our  own  conductor  in  a  little  chair  by  the  fire. 
He  was  looking  a  bit  pathetic.  I  had  enough  sense  to 
give  him  a  coffee,  which  brightened  him.  But  it  was 
not  till  afterwards,  putting  things  together,  that  I 
realized  he  had  wanted  to  be  with  us  all  at  table,  but 
that  his  conductor's  wages  probably  did  not  allow  him 
to  spend  the  money.  My  bill  for  the  dinner  was  about 
fifteen  francs,  for  the  two  of  us. 

In  the  bus  again,  we  were  quite  crowded.  A  peasant 
girl  in  Nuoro  costume  sat  facing  me,  and  a  dark-bearded, 
middle-aged  man  in  a  brown  velveteen  suit  was  next 
me  and  glowering  at  her.  He  was  evidently  her  hus- 
band. I  did  not  like  him:  one  of  the  jealous,  carping 
sort.  She,  in  her  way,  was  handsome:  but  a  bit  of  a 

[  235  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

devil  as  well,  in  all  probability.  There  were  two 
village  women  become  fine,  in  town  dress  and  black  silk 
scarves  over  their  heads,  fancying  themselves.  Then 
there  was  a  wild  scuffle,  and  three  bouncing  village 
lasses  were  pushed  in,  laughing  and  wild  with  excite- 
ment. There  were  wild  farewells,  and  the  bus  rolled 
out  of  Gavoi  between  the  desolate  mountain  fields  and 
the  rocks,  on  a  sort  of  table-land.  We  rolled  on  for 
a  mile  or  so:  then  stopped,  and  the  excited  lasses  got 
down.  I  gathered  they  had  been  given  a  little  ride 
for  a  Sunday  treat.  Delighted  they  were.  And  they 
set  off,  with  other  bare-headed  women  in  costume, 
along  a  bare  path  between  flat,  out-cropping  rocks  and 
cold  fields. 

The  girl  facing  me  was  a  study.  She  was  not  more 
than  twenty  years  old  I  should  say:  or  was  she?  Did 
the  delicate  and  fine  complication  of  lines  against  her 
eyes  mean  thirty-five?  But  anyhow  she  was  the  wife 
of  the  velveteen  man.  He  was  thick-set  and  had 
white  hairs  in  his  coarse  black  beard,  and  little,  irritable 
brown  eyes  under  his  irritable  brows.  He  watched  her 
all  the  time.  Perhaps,  she  was  after  all  a  young,  new 
girl-wife.  She  sat  with  that  expressionless  look  of 
one  who  is  watched  and  who  appears  not  to  know  it. 
She  had  her  back  to  the  engine. 

[  236  ] 


GAVO  I 


Jan   Juta 


TO  NUORO 

She  wore  her  black  head-cloth  from  her  brow  and 
her  hair  was  taken  tight  back  from  her  rather  hard, 
broad,  well-shaped  forehead.  Her  dark  eyebrows 
were  very  finely  drawn  above  her  large,  dark-grey,  pel- 
lucid eyes,  but  they  were  drawn  with  a  peculiar  obsti- 
nate and  irritating  lift.  Her  nose  was  straight  and 
small,  her  mouth  well-shut.  And  her  big,  rather  hos- 
tile eyes  had  a  withheld  look  in  them,  obstinate.  Yet, 
being  newly  wed  and  probably  newly-awakened,  her 
eyes  looked  sometimes  at  me  with  a  provoking  look, 
curious  as  to  what  I  was  in  the  husband  line,  challeng- 
ing rather  defiantly  with  her  new  secrets,  obstinate  in 
opposition  to  the  male  authority,  and  yet  intrigued  by 
the  very  fact  that  one  was  man.  The  velveteen  hus- 
band— his  velveteens  too  had  gone  soft  and  gold- 
faded,  yet  somehow  they  made  him  look  ugly,  com- 
mon— he  watched  her  with  his  irritable,  yellow-brown 
eyes,  and  seemed  to  fume  in  his  stiff  beard. 

She  wore  the  costume:  the  full-gathered  shirt 
fastened  at  the  throat  with  the  two  gold  filigree  globes, 
a  little  dark,  braided,  stiff  bolero  just  fastened  at  the 
waist,  leaving  a  pretty  pattern  of  white  breast,  and  a 
dark  maroon  skirt.  As  the  bus  rushed  along  she  turned 
somewhat  pale,  with  the  obstinate  pinched  look  of  a 
woman  who  is  in  opposition  to  her  man.  At  length 
she  flung  him  a  few  words  which  I  did  not  catch — and 

[  237  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

her  forehead  seemed  to  go  harder,  as  she  drooped  her 
lashes  occasionally  over  her  wide,  alert,  obstinate, 
rather  treacherous  eyes.  She  must  have  been  a  diffi- 
cult piece  of  goods  to  deal  with.  And  she  sat  with  her 
knees  touching  mine,  rocking  against  mine  as  the  bus 
swayed. 

We  came  to  a  village  on  the  road:  the  landscape  had 
now  become  wider,  much  more  open.  At  the  inn  door 
the  bus  stopped,  and  the  velveteen  husband  and  the 
girl  got  down.  It  was  cold — but  in  a  minute  I  got 
down  too.  The  bus  conductor  came  to  me  and  asked 
anxiously  if  the  q-b  were  ill.  The  q-b  said  no,  why? 
Because  there  was  a  signora  whom  the  motion  of  the 
bus  made  ill.  This  was  the  girl. 

There  was  a  crowd  and  a  great  row  at  this  inn.  In 
the  second  dark  room,  which  was  bare  of  furniture, 
a  man  sat  in  a  corner  playing  an  accordion.  Men  in 
the  close  breeches  were  dancing  together.  Then  they 
fell  to  wrestling  wildly,  crashing  about  among  the 
others,  with  shouts  and  yells.  Men  in  the  black-and- 
white,  but  untidy,  with  the  wide  white  drawers  left 
hanging  out  over  the  black  gaiters,  surged  here  and 
there.  All  were  rowdy  with  drink.  This  again  was 
rather  a  squalid  inn  but  roaring  with  violent,  crude 
male  life. 

[  238  ] 


TO  NUORO 

The  Nuoro  citizen  said  that  here  was  very  good  wine, 
and  we  must  try  it.  I  did  not  want  it,  but  he  insisted. 
So  we  drank  little  glasses  of  merely  moderate  red 
wine.  The  sky  had  gone  all  grey  with  the  afternoon 
curd-clouds.  It  was  very  cold  and  raw.  Wine  is  no 
joy,  cold,  dead  wine,  in  such  an  atmosphere. 

The  Nuoro  citizen  insisted  on  paying.  He  would 
let  me  pay,  he  said,  when  he  came  to  England.  In 
him,  and  in  our  bus  men,  the  famous  Sardinian  hospi- 
tality and  generosity  still  lingers. 

When  the  bus  ran  on  again  the  q-b  told  the  peasant 
girl  who  again  had  the  pinched  look,  to  change  places 
with  me  and  sit  with  her  face  to  the  engine.  This  the 
young  woman  did,  with  that  rather  hard  assurance 
common  to  these  women.  But  at  the  next  stop  she 
got  down,  and  made  the  conductor  come  with  us  into 
the  compartment,  whilst  she  sat  in  front  between  the 
driver  and  the  citizen  of  Nuoro.  That  was  what  she 
wanted  all  the  time.  Now  she  was  all  right.  She 
had  her  back  to  the  velveteen  husband,  she  sat  close 
between  two  strange  young  men,  who  were  condoling 
with  her.  .  And  velveteens  eyed  her  back,  and  his  little 
eyes  went  littler  and  more  pin-pointed,  and  his  nose 
seemed  to  curl  with  irritation. 

[  239  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

The  costumes  had  changed  again.  There  was  again 
the  scarlet,  but  no  green.  The  green  had  given  place 
to  mauve  and  rose.  The  women  in  one  cold,  stony, 
rather  humbled  broken  place  were  most  brilliant. 
They  had  the  geranium  skirts,  but  their  sleeveless  bo- 
leros were  made  to  curl  out  strangely  from  the  waist, 
and  they  were  edged  with  a  puckered  rose-pink,  a  broad 
edge,  with  lines  of  mauve  and  lavender.  As  they  went 
up  between  the  houses  that  were  dark  and  grisly  under 
the  blank,  cold  sky,  it  is  amazing  how  these  women  of 
vermilion  and  rose-pink  seemed  to  melt  into  an  almost 
impossible  blare  of  colour.  What  a  risky  blend  of 
colours!  Yet  how  superb  it  could  look,  that  danger- 
ous hard  assurance  of  these  women  as  they  strode  along 
so  blaring.  I  would  not  like  to  tackle  one  of  them. 

Wider  and  colder  the  landscape  grew.  As  we  topped 
a  hill  at  the  end  of  a  village,  we  saw  a  long  string  of 
wagons,  each  with  a  pair  of  oxen,  and  laden  with  large 
sacks,  curving  upwards  in  the  cold,  pallid  Sunday  after- 
noon. Seeing  us,  the  procession  came  to  a  standstill  at 
the  curve  of  the  road,  and  the  pale  oxen,  the  pale  low 
wagons,  the  pale  full  sacks,  all  in  the  blenched  light, 
each  one  headed  by  a  tall  man  in  shirt-sleeves,  trailing  a 
static  procession  on  the  hill-side,  seemed  like  a  vision: 
like  a  Dore  drawing.  The  bus  slid  past,  the  man 

[  240  ] 


TO  NUORO 

holding  the  wagon-pole,  while  some  oxen  stood  like 
rock,  some  swayed  their  horns.  The  q-b  asked  the 
velveteener  what  they  were  carrying.  For  a  long 
time  he  took  no  notice  of  the  question.  Then  he  vol- 
unteered, in  a  snappy  voice,  that  it  was  the  govern- 
ment grain  being  distributed  to  the  communes  for  bread. 
On  Sunday  afternoon  too. 

Oh  this  government  corn!  What  a  problem  those 
sacks  represent! 

The  country  became  wider  as  we  dropped  lower. 
But  it  was  bleak  and  treeless  once  more.  Stones 
cropped  up  in  the  wide,  hollow  dales.  Men  on  ponies 
passed  forlorn  across  the  distances.  Men  with  bundles 
waited  at  the  cross-roads  to  pick  up  the  bus.  We  were 
drawing  near  to  Nuoro.  It  was  past  three  in  the  after- 
noon, cold  with  a  blenched  light.  The  landscape 
seemed  bare  and  stony,  wide,  different  from  any  before. 

We  came  to  the  valley  where  the  branch-line  runs  to 
Nuoro.  I  saw  little  pink  railway-cabins  at  once,  lone- 
ly along  the  valley  bed.  Turning  sharp  to  the  right, 
we  ran  in  silence  over  the  moor-land-seeming  slopes, 
and  saw  the  town  beyond,  clustered  beyond,  a  little 
below,  at  the  end  of  the  long  declivity,  with  sudden 
mountains  rising  around  it.  There  it  lay,  as  if  at  the 
end  of  the  world,  mountains  rising  sombre  behind, 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

So,  we  stop  at  the  Dazio,  the  town's  customs  hut,  and 
velveteens  has  to  pay  for  some  meat  and  cheese  he  is 
bringing  in.  After  which  we  slip  into  the  cold  high- 
street  of  Nuoro.  I  am  thinking  that  this  is  the  home 
of  Grazia  Deledda,  the  novelist,  and  I  see  a  barber's 
shop.  De  Ledda.  And  thank  heaven  we  are  at  the 
end  of  the  journey.  It  is  past  four  o'clock. 

The  bus  has  stopped  quite  close  to  the  door  of  the 
inn:  Star  of  Italy,  was  it?  In  we  go  at  the  open  door. 
Nobody  about,  free  access  to  anywhere  and  every- 
where, as  usual:  testifying  again  to  Sardinian  honesty. 
We  peer  through  a  doorway  to  the  left — through  a 
rough  little  room:  ah,  there  in  a  dark,  biggish  room 
beyond  is  a  whitehaired  old  woman  with  a  long,  ivory- 
coloured  face  standing  at  a  large  table  ironing.  One 
sees  only  the  large  whiteness  of  the  table,  and  the  long 
pallid  face  and  the  querulous  pale-blue  eye  of  the 
tall  old  woman  as  she  looks  up  questioning  from  the 
gloom  of  the  inner  place. 

"Is  there  a  room,  Signora?" 

She  looks  at  me  with  a  pale,  cold  blue  eye,  and 
shouts  into  the  dark  for  somebody.  Then  she  ad- 
vances into  the  passage  and  looks  us  up  and  down,  the 
q-b  and  me. 

"Are  you  husband  and  wife?"  she  demands,  chal- 
lenge, 

[  242  ] 


TO  NUORO 

"Yes,  how  shouldn't  we  be,"  say  I. 

A  tiny  maid,  of  about  thirteen,  but  sturdy  and  brisk- 
looking,  has  appeared  in  answer  to  the  shout. 

"Take  them  to  number  seven,"  says  the  old  dame, 
and  she  turns  back  to  her  gloom,  and  seizes  the  flat 
iron  grimly. 

We  follow  up  two  flights  of  cold  stone  stairs,  dis- 
heartening narrow  staircase  with  a  cold  iron  rail,  and 
corridors  opening  off  gloomily  and  rather  disorderly. 
These  houses  give  the  effect,  inside,  of  never  having 
been  properly  finished,  as  if,  long,  long  ago,  the  in- 
mates had  crowded  in,  pig-sty  fashion,  without  waiting 
for  anything  to  be  brought  into  order,  and  there  it 
had  been  left,  dreary  and  chaotic. 

Thumbelina,  the  little  maid,  threw  open  the  door 
of  number  seven  with  eclat.  And  we  both  exclaimed: 
"How  fine!"  It  seemed  to  us  palatial.  Two  good, 
thick  white  beds,  a  table,  a  chest  of  drawers,  two  mats 
on  the  tiled  floor,  and  gorgeous  oleographs  on  the  wall — 
and  two  good  wash-bowls  side  by  side — and  all  perfect- 
ly clean  and  nice.  What  were  we  coming  to!  We 
felt  we  ought  to  be  impressed. 

We  pulled  open  the  latticed  window  doors,  and 
looked  down  on  the  street:  the  only  street.  And  it 
was  a  river  of  noisy  life.  A  band  was  playing,  rather 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

terribly,  round  the  corner  at  the  end,  and  up  and  down 
the  street  jigged  endless  numbers  of  maskers  in  their 
Carnival  costume,  with  girls  and  young  women  stroll- 
ing arm-in-arm  to  participate.  And  how  frisky  they 
all  were,  how  bubbly  and  unself -conscious! 

The  maskers  were  nearly  all  women — the  street  was 
full  of  women:  so  we  thought  at  first.  Then  we  saw, 
looking  closer,  that  most  of  the  women  were  young 
men,  dressed  up.  All  the  maskers  were  young  men, 
and  most  of  these  young  men,  of  course,  were  mas- 
querading as  women.  As  a  rule  they  did  not  wear 
face-masks,  only  little  dominoes  of  black  cloth  or  green 
cloth  or  white  cloth  coming  down  to  the  mouth. 
Which  is  much  better.  For  the  old  modelled  half- 
masks  with  the  lace  frill,  the  awful  proboscis  sticking 
forward  white  and  ghastly  like  the  beaks  of  corpse- 
birds — such  as  the  old  Venice  masks — these  I  think 
are  simply  horrifying.  And  the  more  modern  "faces" 
are  usually  only  repulsive.  While  the  simple  little 
pink  half-masks  with  the  end  of  black  or  green  or 
white  cloth,  these  just  form  a  human  disguise. 

It  was  quite  a  game,  sorting  out  the  real  women 
from  the  false.  Some  were  easy.  They  had  stuffed 
their  bosoms,  and  stuffed  their  bustles,  and  put  on  hats 
and  very  various  robes,  and  they  minced  along  with 
little  jigging  steps,  like  little  dolls  that  dangle  from 

[  244  ] 


TO  NUORO 

elastic,  and  they  put  their  heads  on  one  side  and  dripped 
their  hands,  and  danced  up  to  flurry  the  actual  young 
ladies,  and  sometimes  they  received  a  good  clout  on 
the  head,  when  they  broke  into  wild  and  violent  ges- 
tures, whereat  the  actual  young  ladies  scuffled  wildly. 
They  were  very  lively  and  naive. — But  some  were 
more  difficult.  Every  conceivable  sort  of  "woman" 
was  there,  broad  shouldered  and  with  rather  large  feet. 
The  most  usual  was  the  semi-peasant,  with  a  very  full 
bosom  and  very  full  skirt  and  a  very  downright  bear- 
ing. But  one  was  a  widow  in  weeds,  drooping  on  the 
arm  of  a  robust  daughter.  And  one  was  an  ancient 
crone  in  a  crochet  bed-cover.  And  one  was  in  an  old 
skirt  and  blouse  and  apron,  with  a  broom,  wildly  sweep- 
ing the  street  from  end  to  end.  He  was  an  animated 
rascal.  He  swept  with  very  sarcastic  assiduity  in  front 
of  two  town-misses  in  fur  coats,  who  minced  very  im- 
portantly along.  He  swept  their  way  very  humbly, 
facing  them  and  going  backwards,  sweeping  and  bow- 
ing, whilst  they  advanced  with  their  noses  in  the  air. 
He  made  his  great  bow,  and  they  minced  past,  daugh- 
ters of  dog-fish,  pesce-carne,  no  doubt.  Then  he 
skipped  with  a  bold,  gambolling  flurry  behind  them, 
and  with  a  perfectly  mad  frenzy  began  to  sweep  after 
them,  as  if  to  sweep  their  tracks  away.  He  swept  so 
madly  and  so  blindly  with  his  besom  that  he  swept  on 

[  245  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

to  their  heels  and  their  ankles.  They  shrieked  and 
glowered  round,  but  the  blind  sweeper  saw  them  not. 
He  swept  and  swept  and  pricked  their  thin  silk  ankles. 
And  they,  scarlet  with  indignation  and  rage,  gave  hot 
skips  like  cats  on  hot  bricks,  and  fled  discomfited  for- 
wards. He  bowed  once  more  after  them,  and  started 
mildly  and  innocently  to  sweep  the  street.  A  pair  of 
lovers  of  fifty  years  ago,  she  in  a  half  crinoline  and 
poke  bonnet  and  veil,  hanging  on  his  arm  came  very 
coyly  past,  oh  so  simpering,  and  it  took  me  a  long  time 
to  be  sure  that  the  "girl"  was  a  youth.  An  old  woman 
in  a  long  nightdress  prowled  up  and  down,  holding 
out  her  candle  and  peering  in  the  street  as  if  for 
burglars.  She  would  approach  the  real  young  women 
and  put  her  candle  in  their  faces  and  peer  so  hard,  as 
if  she  suspected  them  of  something.  And  they  blushed 
and  turned  their  faces  away  and  protested  confusedly. 
This  old  woman  searched  so  fearfully  in  the  face  of 
one  strapping  lass  in  the  pink  and  scarlet  costume,  who 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  bunch  of  red  and  rose- 
pink  geraniums,  with  a  bit  of  white, — a  real  peasant 
lass — that  the  latter  in  a  panic  began  to  beat  him  with 
her  fist,  furiously,  quite  aroused.  And  he  made  off, 
running  comically  in  his  long  white  nightdress. 

There  were  some  really  beautiful  dresses  of  rich  old 
brocade,  and  some  gleaming  old  shawls,  a  shimmer  of 

[  246  ] 


TO  NUORO 

lavender  and  silver,  or  of  dark,  rich  shot  colours  with 
deep  borders  of  white  silver  and  primrose  gold,  very 
lovely.  I  believe  two  of  them  were  actual  women — 
but  the  q-b  says  no.  There  was  a  Victorian  gown  of 
thick  green  silk,  with  a  creamy  blotched  cross-over 
shawl.  About  her  we  both  were  doubtful.  There 
were  two  wistful,  drooping-lily  sisters,  all  in  white, 
with  big  feet.  And  there  was  a  very  successful  tall 
miss  in  a  narrow  hobble-skirt  of  black  satin  and  a 
toque  with  ospreys.  The  way  she  minced  and  wagged 
her  posterior  and  went  on  her  toes  and  peered  over 
her  shoulder  and  kept  her  elbows  in  was  an  admirable 
caricature.  Especially  the  curious  sagging  heaving 
movement  of  "bustle"  region,  a  movement  very  char- 
acteristic of  modern  feminism,  was  hit  off  with  a  bit 
of  male  exaggeration  which  rejoiced  me.  At  first  she 
even  took  me  in. 

We  stood  outside  our  window,  and  leaned  on  the 
little  balcony  rail  looking  down  at  this  flow  of  life, 
Directly  opposite  was  the  chemist's  house:  facing  our 
window  the  best  bedroom  of  the  chemist,  with  a  huge 
white  matrimonial  bed  and  muslin  curtains.  In  the 
balcony  sat  the  chemist's  daughters,  very  elegant  in 
high-heeled  shoes  and  black  hair  done  in  the  fluffy 
fashion  with  a  big  sweep  sideways.  Oh  very  elegant! 

[  247  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

They  eyed  us  a  little  and  we  eyed  them.     But  without 
interest.     The  river  of  life  was  down  below. 

It  was  very  cold  and  the  day  was  declining.  We 
too  were  cold.  We  decided  to  go  into  the  street  and 
look  for  the  cafe.  In  a  moment  we  were  out  of  doors, 
walking  as  inconspicuously  as  possible  near  the  wall. 
Of  course  there  was  no  pavement.  These  maskers 
were  very  gentle  and  whimsical,  no  touch  of  brutality 
at  all.  Now  we  were  level  with  them,  how  odd  and 
funny  they  were.  One  youth  wore  a  thin  white  blouse 
and  a  pair  of  his  sister's  wide,  calico  knickers  with  needle- 
work frills  near  the  ankle,  and  white  stockings.  He 
walked  artlessly,  and  looked  almost  pretty.  Only  the 
q-b  winced  with  pain:  not  because  of  the  knickers,  but 
because  of  that  awful  length,  coming  well  below  the 
knee.  Another  young  man  was  wound  into  a  sheet, 
and  heavens  knows  if  he  could  ever  get  out  of  it.  An- 
other was  involved  in  a  complicated  entanglement  of 
white  crochet  antimacassars,  very  troublesome  to  con- 
template. I  did  not  like  him  at  all,  like  a  fish  in  a 
net.  But  he  strode  robustly  about. 

We  came  to  the  end  of  the  street,  where  there  is  a 
wide,  desolate  sort  of  gap.  Here  the  little  band  stood 
braying  away,  there  was  a  thick  crowd  of  people,  and 
on  a.  slanting  place  just  above,  a  little  circle  where 

[  248  ] 


TO  NUORO 

youths  and  men,  maskers  and  one  or  two  girls  were 
dancing,  so  crowded  together  and  such  a  small  ring 
that  they  looked  like  a  jiggly  set  of  upright  rollers 
all  turning  rickettily  against  one  another.  They  were 
doing  a  sort  of  intense  jigging  waltz.  Why  do  they 
look  so  intense?  Perhaps  because  they  were  so  tight 
all  together,  like  too  many  fish  in  a  globe  slipping 
through  one  another. 

There  was  a  cafe  in  this  sort  of  piazza — not  a 
piazza  at  all,  a  formless  gap.  But  young  men  were 
drinking  little  drinks,  and  I  knew  it  would  be  hope- 
less to  ask  for  anything  but  cold  drinks  or  black  coffee : 
which  we  did  not  want.  So  we  continued  forwards, 
up  the  slope  of  the  village  street.  These  towns  soon 
come  to  an  end.  Already  we  were  wandering  into 
the  open.  On  a  ledge  above,  a  peasant  family  was 
making  a  huge  bonfire,  a  tower  of  orange-coloured, 
rippling  flame.  Little,  impish  boys  were  throwing 
on  more  rubbish.  Everybody  else  was  in  town.  Why 
were  these  folk  at  the  town-end  making  this  fire  alone? 

We  came  to  the  end  of  the  houses  and  looked  over 
the  road-wall  at  the  hollow,  deep,  interesting  valley 
below.  Away  on  the  other  side  rose  a  blue  mountain, 
a  steep  but  stumpy  cone.  High  land  reared  up,  dusky 
and  dark-blue,  all  around.  Somewhere  far  off  the  sun 
was  setting  with  a  bit  of  crimson.  It  was  a  wild,  un- 

[  249  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

usual  landscape,  of  unusual  shape.  The  hills  seemed 
so  untouched,  dark-blue,  virgin-wild,  the  hollow  cradle 
of  the  valley  was  cultivated  like  a  tapestry  away  be- 
low. And  there  seemed  so  little  outlying  life:  noth- 
ing. No  castles  even.  In  Italy  and  Sicily  castles 
perching  everywhere.  In  Sardinia  none — the  remote, 
ungrappled  hills  rising  darkly,  standing  outside  of  life. 

As  we  went  back  it  was  growing  dark,  and  the  little 
band  was  about  to  leave  off  its  brass  noise.  But  the 
crowd  still  surged,  the  maskers  still  jigged  and  frisked 
unweariedly.  Oh  the  good  old  energy  of  the  bygone 
days,  before  men  became  so  self-conscious.  Here  it 
was  still  on  the  hop. 

We  found  no  cafe  that  looked  any  good.  Coming 
to  the  inn,  we  asked  if  there  was  a  fire  anywhere. 
There  wasn't.  We  went  up  to  our  room.  The 
chemist-daughters  had  lighted  up  opposite,  one  saw 
their  bedroom  as  if  it  were  one's  own.  In  the  dusk 
of  the  street  the  maskers  were  still  jigging,  all  the 
youths  still  joyfully  being  women,  but  a  little  more 
roughly  now.  Away  over  the  house-tops  the  purple- 
red  of  a  dying  sunset.  And  it  was  very  cold. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  just  to  lie  in  bed. 
The  q-b  made  a  little  tea  on  the  spirit-lamp,  and  we 
sat  in  bed  and  sipped  it.  Then  we  covered  ourselves 

[  250  ] 


TO  NUORO 

up  and  lay  still,  to  get  warm.  Outside  the  noise  of 
the  street  came  unabated.  It  grew  quite  dark,  the 
lights  reflected  into  the  room.  There  was  the  sound 
of  an  accordion  across  the  hoarseness  of  the  many  voices 
and  movements  in  the  street:  and  then  a  solid,  strong 
singing  of  men's  voices,  singing  a  soldier  song. 

"Quando  torniamo  in  casa  nostra — " 

We  got  up  to  look.  Under  the  small  electric  lights 
the  narrow,  cobbled  street  was  still  running  with  a  river 
of  people,  but  fewer  maskers.  Two  maskers  beating 
loudly  at  a  heavy  closed  door.  They  beat  and  beat. 
At  last  the  door  opens  a  crack.  They  rush  to  try  to 
get  in — but  in  vain.  It  had  shut  the  moment  it  saw 
them,  they  are  foiled,  on  they  go  down  the  street. 
The  town  is  full  of  men,  many  peasants  come  in  from 
the  outlying  parts,  the  black  and  white  costume  now 
showing  in  the  streets. 

We  retire  to  bed  again  out  of  the  cold.  Comes  a 
knock,  and  Thumbelina  bursts  in,  in  the  darkness. 

"Siamo  qua!"  says  the  q-b. 

Thumbelina  dashes  at  the  window-doors  and  shuts 
them  and  shuts  the  casement.  Then  she  dashes  to 
my  bedhead  and  turns  on  the  light,  looking  down  at 
me  as  if  I  were  a  rabbit  in  the  grass.  Then  she  flings 
a  can  of  water  against  the  wash-bowls — cold  water, 
icy,  alas.  After  which,  small  and  explosive,  she  ex- 

[  251  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

plodes  her  way  out  of  the  room  again,  and  leaves  us 
in  the  glaring  light,  having  replied  that  it  is  now  a 
little  after  six  o'clock,  and  dinner  is  half  past  seven. 

So  we  lie  in  bed,  warm  and  in  peace,  but  hungry, 
waiting  for  half  past  seven. 

When  the  q-b  can  stand  it  no  more  she  flounces  up, 
though  the  clock  from  the  Campanile  has  struck  seven 
only  a  few  minutes  before.  Dashing  downstairs  to 
reconnoitre,  she  is  back  in  a  breath  to  say  that  people 
are  eating  their  heads  off  in  the  long  dining  room. 
In  the  next  breath  we  are  downstairs  too. 

The  room  was  brightly  lighted,  and  at  many  white 
tables  sat  diners,  all  men.  It  was  quite  city-like. 
Everyone  was  in  convivial  mood.  The  q-b  spied  men 
opposite  having  chicken  and  salad — and  she  had  hopes. 
But  they  were  brief.  When  the  soup  came,  the  girl 
announced  that  there  was  only  bistecca:  which  meant 
a  bit  of  fried  cow.  So  it  did:  a  quite,  quite  small  bit 
of  fried  beef,  a  few  potatoes  and  a  bit  of  cauliflower. 
Really,  it  was  not  enough  for  a  child  of  twelve.  But 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  A  few  mandarini — tangerine 
oranges — rolled  on  a  plate  for  dessert.  And  there's 
the  long  and  short  of  these  infernal  dinners.  Was 
there  any  cheese?  No,  there  was  no  cheese.  So  we 
merely  masticated  bread. 

[  252  ] 


TO  NUORO 

There  came  in  three  peasants  in  the  black  and  white 
costume,  and  sat  at  the  middle  table.  They  kept  on 
their  stocking  caps.  And  queer  they  looked,  coming 
in  with  slow,  deliberate  tread  of  these  elderly  men, 
and  sitting  rather  remote,  with  a  gap  of  solitude 
around  them.  The  peculiar  ancient  loneliness  of  the 
Sardinian  hills  clings  to  them,  and  something  stiff, 
static,  pre-world. 

All  the  men  at  our  end  of  the  room  were  citizens — 
employees  of  some  sort — and  they  were  all  acquaint- 
ances. A  large  dog,  very  large  indeed,  with  a  great 
muzzle,  padded  slowly  from  table  to  table,  and  looked 
at  us  with  big  wistful  topaz  eyes.  When  the  meal 
was  almost  over  our  bus-driver  and  conductor  came 
in — looking  faint  with  hunger  and  cold  and  fatigue. 
They  were  quartered  at  this  house.  They  had  eaten 
nothing  since  the  boar-broth  at  Gavoi. 

In  a  very  short  time  they  were  through  their  por- 
tions: and  was  there  nothing  else?  Nothing!  But 
they  were  half  starved.  They  ordered  two  eggs  each, 
in  padella.  I  ordered  coffee — and  asked  them  to  come 
and  take  it  with  us,  and  a  brandy.  So  they  came  when 
their  eggs  were  finished. 

A  diversion  was  now  created  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  The  red  wine,  which  is  good  in  Sardinia, 

[  253  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

had  been  drunk  freely.  Directly  facing  us  sat  a  rather 
stout  man  with  pleasant  blue  eyes  and  a  nicely  shaped 
head:  dressed  like  any  other  town  man  on  a  Sunday. 
The  dog  had  waddled  up  to  him  and  sat  down  statu- 
esque in  front  of  him.  And  the  fat  man,  being  mellow, 
began  to  play  with  the  big,  gentle,  brindled  animal. 
He  took  a  piece  of  bread  and  held  it  before  the  dog's 
nose — and  the  dog  tried  to  take  it.  But  the  man,  like 
a  boy  now  he  was  ripe  with  wine,  put  the  mastiff  back 
with  a  restraining  finger,  and  told  him  not  to  snatch. 
Then  he  proceeded  with  a  little  conversation  with  the 
animal.  The  dog  again  tried  to  snatch,  gently,  and 
again  the  man  started,  saved  the  bread,  and  startled 
the  dog,  which  backed  and  gave  a  sharp,  sad  yelp,  as 
if  to  say:  "Why  do  you  tease  me!" 

"Now,"  said  the  man,  "you  are  not  to  snatch.  Come 
here.  Come  here.  Vieni  qua!"  And  he  held  up 
the  piece  of  bread.  The  animal  came  near.  "Now," 
said  the  man,  "I  put  this  bread  on  your  nose,  and  you 
don't  move,  un — Ha!  !" 

The  dog  had  tried  to  snatch  the  bread,  the  man  had 
shouted  and  jerked  it  away,  the  animal  had  recoiled 
and  given  another  expostulating  yelp. 

The  game  continued.  All  the  room  was  watching, 
smiling.  The  dog  did  not  understand  at  all.  It  came 
forward  again,  troubled.  The  man  held  the  bread 


TO  NUORO 

near  its  nose,  and  held  up  a  warning  finger.  The  beast 
dropped  its  head  mournfully,  cocking  up  its  eye  at  the 
bread  with  varied  feelings. 

"Now — !"  said  the  man,  "not  until  I  say  three — 
Uno — due — "  the  dog  could  bear  it  no  longer,  the 
man  in  jerking  let  go  the  bread  and  yelled  at  the  top 
of  his  voice — "e  tre!"  The  dog  gulped  the  piece  of 
bread  with  a  resigned  pleasure,  and  the  man  pretended 
it  had  all  happened  properly  on  the  word  "three." 

So  he  started  again.  "Vieni  qua!  Vieni  qua!" 
The  dog,  which  had  backed  away  with  the  bread,  came 
hesitating,  cringing  forward,  dropping  its  hind-quarters 
in  doubt,  as  dogs  do,  advancing  towards  the  new  nugget 
of  bread.  The  man  preached  it  a  little  sermon. 

"You  sit  there  and  look  at  this  bread.  I  sit  here 
and  look  at  you,  and  I  hold  this  bread.  And  you  stop 
still,  and  I  stop  still,  while  I  count  three.  Now 
then — uno — "  the  dog  couldn't  bear  these  numerals, 
with  their  awful  slowness.  He  snatched  desperately. 
The  man  yelled  and  lost  the  bread,  the  dog,  gulping, 
turned  to  creep  away. 

Then  it  began  again. 

"Come  here!  Come  here!  Didn't  I  tell  thee  I 
would  count  three?  Gi&!  I  said  I  would  count  three 
Not  one,  but  three.  And  to  count  three  you  need 
three  numbers.  Ha!  Steady!  Three  numbers. 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Uno— due  E  TRE!"  The  last  syllables  were  yelled 
so  that  the  room  rang  again.  The  dog  gave  a  mourn- 
ful howl  of  excitement,  missed  the  bread,  groped  for 
it,  and  fled. 

The  man  was  red  with  excitement,  his  eyes  shining. 
He  addressed  the  company  at  large.  "I  had  a  dog," 
he  said,  "ah,  a  dog!  And  I  would  put  a  piece  of  bread 
on  his  nose,  and  say  a  verse.  And  he  looked  at  me 
so ! "  The  man  put  his  face  sideways.  "And  he  looked 
at  me  so!"  He  gazed  up  under  his  brows.  "And  he 
talked  to  me  so — o:  Zieu!  Zieu! — But  he  never  moved. 
No,  he  never  moved.  If  he  sat  with  that  bread  on 
his  nose  for  half  an  hour,  and  if  tears  ran  down  his 
face,  he  never  moved — not  till  I  said  three!  Then — 
ah!"  The  man  tossed  up  his  face,  snapped  the  air 
with  his  mouth,  and  gulped  an  imaginary  crust.  "AH, 
that  dog  was  trained  .  .  ."  The  man  of  forty 
shook  his  head. 

"Vieni  qua!     Come  here!     Tweet!     Come  here!" 

He  patted  his  fat  knee,  and  the  dog  crept  forward. 
The  man  held  another  piece  of  bread. 

"Now,"  he  said  to  the  dog,  "listen!  Listen.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  something. 

II  soldato  va  alia  guerra — 

No — no,  Not  yet.     When  I  say  three! 

II  soldato  va  alia  guerra 

1 256  ] 


TO  NUORO 

Mangia  male,  dorme  in  terra — 
Listen.     Be  still.     Quiet  now.     UNO— DUE— E— 
TRE!" 

It  came  out  in  one  simultaneous  yell  from  the  man, 
the  dog  in  sheer  bewilderment  opened  his  jaws  and 
let  the  bread  go  down  his  throat,  and  wagged  his  tail 
in  agitated  misery. 

"Ah,"  said  the  man,  "you  are  learning.  Come! 
Come  here!  Come!  Now  then!  Now  you  know. 
So!  So!  Look  at  me  so!" 

The  stout,  good-looking  man  of  forty  bent  forward. 
His  face  was  flushed,  the  veins  in  his  neck  stood  out. 
He  talked  to  the  dog,  and  imitated  the  dog.  And 
very  well  indeed  he  reproduced  something  of  the  big, 
gentle,  wistful  subservience  of  the  animal.  The  dog 
was  his  totem — the  affectionate,  self-mistrustful,  warm- 
hearted hound. 

So  he  started  the  rigmarole  again.  We  put  it  into 
English. 

"Listen  now.     Listen!     Let  me  tell  it  you. 
— So  the  soldier  goes  to  the  war! 

His  food  is  rotten,  he  sleeps  on  the  floor — 

Now!  Now!  No,  you  are  not  keeping  quiet. 
Now!  Now! 

II  soldate  va  alia  guerra 

male,  dorme  in  terra--*'7 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

The  verses,  known  to  every  Italian,  were  sung  out 
in  a  sing-song  fashion.  The  audience  listened  as  one 
man — or  as  one  child — the  rhyme  chiming  in  every 
heart.  They  waited  with  excitement  for  the  One — 
Two — and  Three!  The  last  two  words  were  always 
ripped  out  with  a  tearing  yell.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  force  of  those  syllables— E  TRE!  But  the  dog 
made  a  poor  show — He  only  gobbled  the  bread  and 
was  uneasy. 

This  game  lasted  us  a  full  hour:  a  full  hour  by  the 
clock  sat  the  whole  room  in  intense  silence,  watching 
the  man  and  the  dog. 

Our  friends  told  us  the  man  was  the  bus-inspector — 
their  inspector.  But  they  liked  him.  "Un  brav' 
uomo!  Un  bravo  uomo!  Eh  si!"  Perhaps  they 
were  a  little  uneasy,  seeing  him  in  his  cups  and  hearing 
him  yell  so  nakedly:  AND  THREE! 

We  talked  rather  sadly,  wistfully.  Young  people, 
especially  nice  ones  like  the  driver,  are  too  sad  and 
serious  these  days.  The  little  conductor  made  big 
brown  eyes  at  us,  wistful  too,  and  sad  we  were  going. 

For  in  the  morning  they  were  driving  back  again  to 
Sorgono,  over  the  old  road,  and  we  were  going  on,  to 
Terranova7  the  port.  But  we  promised  to  come. 


TO  NUORO 

in  the  summer,  when  it  was  warmer.     Then  we  should 
all  meet  again. 

"Perhaps  you  will  find  us  on  the  same  course  still. 
Who  knows!"  said  the  driver  sadly. 


t  259  1 


VII. 
TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER. 

THE  morning  was  very  clear  and  blue.  We 
were  up  betimes.  The  old  dame  of  the  inn 
very  friendly  this  morning.  We  were  going 
already!  Oh,  but  we  hadn't  stayed  long  in  Nuoro. 
Didn't  we  like  it? 

Yes,  we  like  it.  We  would  come  back  in  the  sum- 
mer when  it  was  warmer. 

Ah  yes,  she  said,  artists  came  in  the  summer.  Yes, 
she  agreed,  Nuoro  was  a  nice  place — simpatico,  molto 
sim'patico.  And  really  it  is.  And  really  she  was  an 
awfully  nice,  capable,  human  old  woman:  and  I  had 
thought  her  a  beldame  when  I  saw  her  ironing. 

She  gave  us  good  coffee  and  milk  and  bread,  and 
we  went  out  into  the  town.  There  was  the  real  Mon- 
day morning  atmosphere  of  an  old,  same-as-ever  pro- 
vincial town:  the  vacant  feeling  of  work  resumed  after 
Sunday,  rather  reluctantly ;  nobody  buying  anything, 
nobody  quite  at  grips  with  anything.  The  doors  of 
the  old-fashioned  shops  stood  open:  in  Nuoro  they 

[  260  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

have  hardly  reached  the  stage  of  window-displays. 
One  must  go  inside,  into  the  dark  caves,  to  see  what 
the  goods  are.  Near  the  doorways  of  the  drapers' 
shops  stood  rolls  of  that  fine  scarlet  cloth,  for  the 
women's  costumes.  In  a  large  tailor's  window  four 
women  sat  sewing,  tailoring,  and  looking  out  of  the 
window  with  eyes  still  Sunday-emancipate  and  mis- 
chievous. Detached  men,  some  in  the  black  and  white, 
stood  at  the  street  corners,  as  if  obstinately  avoiding 
the  current  of  work.  Having  had  a  day  off,  the  salt 
taste  of  liberty  still  lingering  on  their  lips,  they  were 
not  going  to  be  dragged  so  easily  back  into  harness. 
I  always  sympathise  with  these  rather  sulky,  forlorn 
males  who  insist  on  making  another  day  of  it.  It 
shows  a  spark  of  spirit,  still  holding  out  against  our 
over-harnessed  world. 

There  is  nothing  to  see  in  Nuoro:  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  is  always  a  relief.  Sights  are  an  irritating  bore. 
Thank  heaven  there  isn't  a  bit  of  Perugino  or  anything 
Pisan  in  the  place:  that  I  know  of.  Happy  is  the 
town  that  has  nothing  to  show.  What  a  lot  of  stunts 
and  affectations  it  saves!  Life  is  then  life,  not  museum- 
stuffing.  One  could  saunter  along  the  rather  inert, 
narrow,  Monday-morning  street,  and  see  the  women 
having  a  bit  of  a  gossip,  and  see  an  old  crone  with  a 
basket  of  bread  on  her  head,  and  see  the  unwilling 

[  261  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ones  hanging  back  from  work,  and  the  whole  current 
of  industry  disinclined  to  flow.  Life  is  life  and  things 
are  things.  I  am  sick  of  gaping  things,  even  Peru- 
ginos.  I  have  had  my  thrills  from  Carpaccio  and 
Botticelli.  But  now  I've  had  enough.  But  I  can  al- 
ways look  at  an  old,  grey-bearded  peasant  in  his  earthy 
white  drawers  and  his  black  waist-frill,  wearing  no 
coat  or  over-garment,  but  just  crooking  along  beside 
his  little  ox-wagon.  I  am  sick  of  "things,"  even  Peru- 
gino. 

The  sight  of  the  woman  with  the  basket  of  bread 
reminded  us  that  we  wanted  some  food.  So  we 
searched  for  bread.  None,  if  you  please.  It  was 
Monday  morning,  eaten  out.  There  would  be  bread 
at  the  forno,  the  oven.  Where  was  the  oven?  Up 
the  road  and  down  a  passage.  I  thought  we  should 
smell  it.  But  no.  We  pandered  back.  Our  friends 
had  told  us  to  take  tickets  early,  for  perhaps  the  bus 
would  be  crowded.  So  we  bought  yesterday's  pastry 
and  little  cakes,  and  slices  of  native  sausage.  And  still 
no  bread.  I  went  and  asked  our  old  hostess. 

"There  is  no  fresh  bread.  It  hasn't  come  in  yet," 
she  said. 

"Never  mind,  give  me  stale." 

So  she  went  and  rummaged  in  a  drawer. 
[   262   ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

"Oh  dear.  Oh  dear,  the  women  have  eaten  it  all! 
But  perhaps  over  there — "  she  pointed  down  the 
street — "they  can  give  you  some." 

They  couldn't. 

I  paid  the  bill —  about  twenty-eight  francs,  I  think — 
and  went  out  to  look  for  the  bus.  There  it  was.  In 
a  dark  little  hole  they  gave  me  the  long  ticket-strips, 
first-class  to  Terranova.  They  cost  some  seventy  francs 
the  two.  The  q-b  was  still  vainly,  aimlessly  looking 
along  the  street  for  bread. 

"Ready  when  you  are,"  said  our  new  driver  rather 
snappily.  He  was  a  pale,  cross-looking  young  man 
with  brown  eyes  and  fair  "ginger"  hair.  So  in  we 
clambered,  waved  farewell  to  our  old  friends,  whose 
bus  was  ready  to  roll  away  in  the  opposite  direction. 
As  we  bumped  past  the  "piazza"  I  saw  Velveteens 
standing  there,  isolate,  and  still,  apparently,  scowling 
with  unabated  irritation. 

I  am  sure  he  has  money:  why  the  first  class,  yester- 
day, otherwise.  And  Pm  sure  she  married  him  be- 
cause he  is  a  townsman  with  property. 

Out  we  rolled,  on  our  last  Sardinian  drive.  The 
morning  was  of  a  bell-like  beauty,  blue  and  very  love- 
ly. Below  on  the  right  stretched  the  concave  valley, 
tapestried  with  cultivation.  Up  into  the  morning  light 

3 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

rose  the  high,  humanless  hills,  with  wild,  treeless  moor- 
slopes. 

But  there  was  no  glass  in  the  left  window  of  the 
cou^ey  and  the  wind  came  howling  in,  cold  enough. 
I  stretched  myself  on  the  front  seat,  the  q-b  screwed 
herself  into  a  corner,  and  we  watched  the  land  flash 
by.  How  well  this  new  man  drove!  the  long-nosed, 
freckled  one  with  his  gloomy  brown  eyes.  How  clev- 
erly he  changed  gear,  so  that  the  automobile  mewed 
and  purred  comfortably,  like  a  live  thing  enjoying 
itself.  And  how  dead  he  was  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
wrapped  in  his  gloom  like  a  young  bus-driving  Ham- 
let. His  answers  to  his  mate  were  monosyllabic — or 
just  no  answers  at  all.  He  was  one  of  those  respon- 
sible, capable,  morose  souls,  who  do  their  work  with 
silent  perfection  and  look  as  if  they  were  driving  along 
the  brink  of  doom,  say  a  word  to  them  and  they'll  go 
over  the  edge.  But  gentle  au  fond,  of  course.  Fiction 
used  to  be  fond  of  them:  a  sort  of  ginger-haired, 
young,  mechanic  Mr.  Rochester  who  has  even  lost 
the  Jane  illusion. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  fair  to  watch  him  so  closely  from 
behind. 

His  mate  was  a  bit  of  a  bounder,  with  one  of 
those  rakish  military  caps  whose  soft  tops  cock  side- 
ways or  backwards.  He  was  in  Italian  khaki,  riding- 

[  264] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

breeches  and  puttees.  He  smoked  his  cigarette  bound- 
erishly:  but  at  the  same  time,  with  peculiar  gentleness, 
he  handed  one  to  the  ginger  Hamlet.  Hamlet  ac- 
cepted it,  and  his  mate  held  him  a  light  as  the  bus 
swung  on.  They  were  like  man  and  wife.  The  mate 
was  the  alert  and  wide-eyed  Jane  Eyre  whom  the  gin- 
ger Mr.  Rochester  was  not  going  to  spoil  in  a  hurry. 

The  landscape  was  different  from  yesterday's.  As 
we  dropped  down  the  shallow,  winding  road  from 
Nuoro,  quite  quickly  the  moors  seemed  to  spread  on 
either  side,  treeless,  bushy,  rocky,  desert.  How  hot 
they  must  be  in  summer!  One  knows  from  Grazia 
Deledda's  books. 

A  pony  with  a  low  trap  was  prancing  unhappily  in 
the  roadside.  We  slowed  down  and  slid  harmlessly 
past.  Then  again,  on  we  whizzed  down  the  looped 
road,  which  turned  back  on  itself  as  sharply  as  a  snake 
that  has  been  wounded.  Hamlet  darted  the  bus  at  the 
curves j  then  softly  padded  round  like  an  angel:  then 
off  again  for  the  next  parabola. 

We  came  out  into  wide,  rather  desolate,  moorland 
valley  spaces,  with  low  rocks  away  to  the  left,  and  steep 
slopes,  rocky-bushy,  on  the  right.  Sometimes  groups 
of  black-and-white  men  were  working  in  the  forlorn 
distances.  A  woman  in  the  madder  costume  lecj  -  pan- 

[  265  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

niered  ass  along  the  wastes.  The  sun  shone  magnifi- 
cently, already  it  was  hotter  here.  The  landscape  had 
quite  changed.  These  slopes  looked  east  and  south 
to  the  sea,  they  were  sun-wild  and  sea-wild. 

The  first  stop  was  where  a  wild,  rough  lane  came 
down  the  hill  to  our  road.  At  the  corner  stood  a 
lonely  house — and  in  the  road-side  the  most  battered, 
life-weary  old  carriage  I  have  ever  seen.  The  jaunty 
mate  sorted  out  the  post — the  boy  with  the  tattered- 
battered  brown  carriage  and  brown  pony  signed  the 
book  as  we  all  stood  in  the  roadway.  There  was  a  lit- 
tle wait  for  a  man  who  was  fetching  up  another  parcel. 
The  post-bag  and  parcels  from  the  tattered  carriage 
were  received  and  stowed  and  signed  for.  We  walked 
up  and  down  in  the  sun  to  get  warm.  The  landscape 
was  wild  and  open  round  about. 

Pip!  goes  Mr.  Rochester,  peremptorily,  at  the  horn. 
Amazing  how  obediently  we  scuffle  in.  Away  goes 
the  bus,  rushing  towards  the  sea.  Already  one  felt 
that  peculiar  glare  in  the  half-way  heavens,  that  inten- 
sification of  the  light  in  the  lower  sky,  which  is  caused 
by  the  sea  to  sunward. 

Away  in  front  three  girls  in  brown  costume  are 
walking  along  the  side  of  the  white  high-road,  going 
with  panniers  towards  a  village  up  a  slight  incline. 
They  hear  us,  turn  round,  and  instantly  go  off  their 

266 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

heads,  exactly  like  chickens  in  the  road.  They  fly 
towards  us,  crossing  the  road,  and  swifter  than  any  rab- 
bits they  scuttle,  one  after  another,  into  a  deep  side- 
track, like  a  deep  ditch  at  right  angles  to  the  road. 
There,  as  we  roll  past,  they  are  all  crouched,  peering 
out  at  us  fearfully,  like  creatures  from  their  hole. 
The  bus  mate  salutes  them  with  a  shout,  and  we  roll 
on  towards  the  village  on  the  low  summit. 

It  is  a  small,  stony,  hen-scratched  place  of  poor 
people.  We  roll  on  to  a  standstill.  There  is  a  group 
of  poor  people.  The  women  wear  the  dark-brown 
costume,  and  again  the  bolero  has  changed  shape.  It 
is  a  rather  fantastic  low  corset,  curiously  shapen;  and 
originally,  apparently,  made  of  wonderful  elaborate 
brocade.  But  look  at  it  now. 

There  is  an  altercation  because  a  man  wants  to  get 
into  the  bus  with  two  little  black  pigs,  each  of  which 
is  wrapped  in  a  little  sack,  with  its  face  and  ears  ap- 
pearing like  a  flower  from  a  wrapped  bouquet.  He 
is  told  that  he  must  pay  the  fare  for  each  pig  as  if  it 
were  a  Christian.  Cristo  del  mondo!  A  pig,  a  little 
pig,  and  paid  for  as  if  it  were  a  Christian.  He  dangles 
the  pig-bouquets,  one  from  each  hand,  and  the  little 
pigs  open  their  black  mouths  and  squeal  with  self- 
conscious  appreciation  of  the  excitement  they  are  caus- 

[  267  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ing.  D'w  benedetto!  it  is  a  chorus.  But  the  bus  mate 
is  inexorable.  Every  animal,  even  if  it  were  a  mouse, 
must  be  paid  for  and  have  a  ticket  as  if  it  were  a  Chris- 
tian. The  pig-master  recoils  stupified  with  indigna- 
tion, a  pig-bouquet  under  each  arm.  "How  much  do 
you  charge  for  the  fleas  you  carry?"  asks  a  sarcastic 
youth. 

A  woman  sitting  sewing  a  soldier's  tunic  into  a  little 
jacket  for  her  urchin,  and  thus  beating  the  sword  into 
a  ploughshare,  stitches  unconcernedly  in  the  sun. 
Round-cheeked  but  rather  slatternly  damsels  giggle. 
The  pig-master,  speechless  with  fury,  slings  the  pig- 
bouquets,  like  two  bottles  one  on  either  side  the  saddle 
of  the  ass  whose  halter  is  held  by  a  grinning  but  also 
malevolent  girl:  malevolent  against  pig-prices,  that  is. 
The  pigs,  looking  abroad  from  their  new  situation, 
squeal  the  eternal  pig-protest  against  an  insufferable 
humanity. 

"Andiamo!  Andiamo!"  says  ginger  Mr.  Rochester 
in  his  quiet  but  intense  voice.  The  bus-mate  scrambles 
up  and  we  charge  once  more  into  the  strong  light  to 
seaward. 

In  we  roll,  into  Orosei,  a  dilapidated,  sun-smitten, 
god-forsaken  little  town  not  far  from  the  sea.  We 
descend  in  piazza.  There  is  a  great,  false  baroque  facade 
to  a  church,  up  a  wavering  vast  mass  of  steps:  and  at  the 

268 


NUORO 


Jan  Juta 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

side  a  wonderful  jumble  of  roundnesses  with  a  jumble 
of  round  tiled  roofs,  peaked  in  the  centre.  It  must 
have  been  some  sort  of  convent.  But  it  is  eminently 
what  they  call  a  "painter's  bit" — that  pallid,  big 
baroque  face,  at  the  top  of  the  slow  incline,  and  the 
very  curious  dark  building  at  the  side  of  it,  with  its 
several  dark-tiled  round  roofs,  like  pointed  hats,  at 
varying  altitudes.  The  whole  space  has  a  strange 
Spanish  look,  neglected,  arid,  yet  with  a  bigness  and 
a  dilapidated  dignity  and  a  stoniness  which  carry  one 
back  to  the  Middle  Ages,  when  life  was  violent  and 
Orosei  was  no  doubt  a  port  and  a  considerable  place. 
Probably  it  had  bishops. 

The  sun  came  hot  into  the  wide  piazza ;  with  its 
pallid  heavy  facade  up  on  the  stony  incline  on  one  side, 
and  arches  and  a  dark  great  courtyard  and  outer  stair- 
ways of  some  unknown  building  away  on  the  other, 
the  road  entering  downhill  from  the  inland,  and  drop- 
ping out  below  to  the  sea-marshes,  and  with  the  im- 
pression that  once  some  single  power  had  had  the 
place  in  grip,  had  given  this  centre  an  architectural 
unity  and  splendour,  now  lost  and  forgotten,  Orosei 
was  truly  fascinating. 

But  the  inhabitants  were  churlish.  We  went  into 
a  sort  of  bar-place,  very  primitive,  and  asked  for 
bread. 

"Bread  alone?"  said  the  churl. 

[  269  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"If  you  please." 

"There  isn't  any,"  he  answered. 

"Oh — where  can  we  get  some  then?" 

"You  can't  get  any." 

"Really!" 

And  we  couldn't.  People  stood  about  glum,  not 
friendly. 

There  was  a  second  great  automobile,  ready  to  set 
off  for  Tortoli,  far  to  the  south,  on  the  east  coast. 
Mandas  is  the  railway  junction  both  for  Sorgono  and 
Tortoli.  The  two  buses  stood  near  and  communed. 
We  prowled  about  the  dead,  almost  extinct  town — or 
call  it  village.  Then  Mr.  Rochester  began  to  pip  his 
horn  peremptorily,  so  we  scuffled  in. 

The  post  was  stowed  away.  A  native  in  black 
broad-cloth  came  running  and  sweating,  carrying  an 
ox-blood  suit-case,  and  said  we  must  wait  for  his 
brother-in-law,  who  was  a  dozen  yards  away.  Ginger 
Mr.  Rochester  sat  on  his  driver's  throne  and  glared 
in  the  direction  whence  the  brother-in-law  must  come. 
His  brow  knitted  irritably,  his  long,  sharp  nose  did  not 
promise  much  patience.  He  made  the  horn  roar  like 
a  sea-cow.  But  no  brother-in-law. 

"I'm  going  to  wait  no  longer,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  a  minute,  a  minute!  That  won't  do  us  any 
harm,"  expostulated  his  mate.  No  answer  from  the 

[  270  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

long  faced,  long-nosed  ginger  Hamlet.  He  sat 
statuesque,  but  with  black  eyes  looking  daggers  down 
the  still  void  road. 

"Eh  va  bene"y  he  murmured  through  closed  lips,  and 
leaned  forward  grimly  for  the  starting  handle. 

"Patience — patience — patience  a  moment — why — " 
cried  the  mate. 

"Per  1'amor'  di  Dio!"  cried  the  black  broad-cloth 
man,  simply  sizzling  and  dancing  in  anguish  on  the 
road,  round  the  suit-case,  which  stood  in  the  dust. 
"Don't  go!  God's  love,  don't  start.  He's  got  to 
catch  the  boat.  He's  got  to  be  in  Rome  tomorrow. 
He  won't  be  a  second.  He's  here,  he's  here,  he's 
here!" 

This  startled  the  fate-fixed,  sharp-nosed  driver.  He 
released  the  handle  and  looked  round,  with  dark  and 
glowering  eyes.  No  one  in  sight.  The  few  glum 
natives  stood  round  unmoved.  Thunder  came  into 
the  gloomy  dark  eyes  of  the  Rochester.  Absolutely 
nobody  in  sight.  Click!  went  his  face  into  a  look  of  al- 
most seraphic  peace,  as  he  pulled  off  the  brakes.  We 
were  on  an  incline,  and  insidiously,  oh  most  subtly  the 
great  bus  started  to  lean  forwards  and  steal  into 
motion. 

"Oh  ma  che! — what  a  will  you've  got!"  cried  the 

[    27!    ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

mate,  clambering  in  to  the  side  of  the  now  seraphic- 
looking  Rochester. 

"Love  of  God — God!"  yelled  the  broad-cloth,  see- 
ing the  bus  melt  forwards  and  gather  momentum.  He 
put  his  hands  up  as  if  to  arrest  it,  and  yelled  in  a  wild 
howl:  "O  Beppin'!  Beppw— O!" 

But  in  vain.  Already  we  had  left  the  little  groups 
of  onlookers  behind.  We  were  rolling  downwards 
out  of  the  piazza.  Broad-cloth  had  seized  the  bag  and 
was  running  beside  us  in  agony.  Out  of  the  piazza 
we  rolled,  Rochester  had  not  put  on  the  engines  and 
we  were  just  simply  rolling  down  the  gentle  incline 
by  the  will  of  God.  Into  the  dark  outlet-street  we 
melted,  towards  the  still  invisible  sea. 

Suddenly  a  yell— "OO— ahh ! ! " 

"E  qua!  E  qua!  fi  qua!  fi  qua!"  gasped 
broad-cloth  four  times.  "He's  here!"  And  then: 
"Beppin' — she's  going,  she's  going!" 

Beppin'  appeared,  a  middle-aged  man  also  in  black 
broad-cloth,  with  a  very  scrubby  chin  and  a  bundle, 
running  towards  us  on  fat  legs.  He  was  perspiring, 
but  his  face  was  expressionless  and  innocent-looking. 
With  a  sardonic  flicker  of  a  grin,  half  of  spite,  half 
of  relief,  Rochester  put  on  the  brakes  again,  and  we 
stopped  in  the  street.  A  woman  tottered  up  panting 
and  holding  her  breast.  Now  for  farewells. 

[   272   ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

"Andiamo!"  said  Rochester  curtly,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  and  making  his  fine  nose  curl  with  malice. 
And  instantly  he  took  off  the  brakes  again.  The  fat 
woman  shoved  Beppin'  in,  gasping  farewells,  the 
brother-in-law  handed  in  the  ox-blood-red  suit-case, 
tottering  behind,  and  the  bus  surged  savagely  out  of 
Orosei. 

Almost  in  a  moment  we  had  left  the  town  on  its 
slope,  and  there  below  us  was  a  river  winding  through 
marshy  flats  to  the  sea,  to  where  small  white  surf 
broke  on  a  flat,  isolated  beach,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  The  river  ran  rapidly  between  stones  and  then 
between  belts  of  high  sere  reeds,  high  as  a  man.  These 
tall  reeds  advanced  almost  into  the  slow,  horizontal 
sea,  from  which  stood  up  a  white  glare  of  light, 
massive  light  over  the  low  Mediterranean. 

Quickly  we  came  down  to  the  river-level,  and  rolled 
over  a  bridge.  Before  us,  between  us  and  the  sea 
rose  another  hill,  almost  like  a  wall  with  a  flat  top, 
running  horizontal,  perfectly  flat,  parallel  with  the 
sea-edge,  a  sort  of  narrow  long  plateau.  For  a  mo- 
ment we  were  in  the  wide  scoop  of  the  river-bed. 
Orosei  stood  on  the  bluff  behind  us. 

Away  to  the  right  the  flat  river-marshes  with  the 
thick  dead  reeds  met  the  flat  and  shining  sea,  river  and 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

sea  were  one  water,  the  waves  rippled  tiny  and  soft-foot 
into  the  stream.  To  the  left  there  was  great  loveli- 
liness.  The  bed  of  the  river  curved  upwards  and  in- 
land, and  there  was  cultivation:  but  particularly,  there 
were  noble  almond  trees  in  full  blossom.  How  beau- 
tiful they  were,  their  pure,  silvery  pink  gleaming  so 
nobly,  like  a  transfiguration,  tall  and  perfect  in  that 
strange  cradled  river-bed  parallel  with  the  sea. 
Almond  trees  were  in  flower  beneath  grey  Orosei, 
almond  trees  came  near  the  road,  and  we  could 
see  the  hot  eyes  of  the  individual  blossoms,  almond 
trees  stood  on  the  upward  slope  before  us.  And 
they  had  flowered  in  such  noble  beauty  there,  in 
that  trough  where  the  sun  fell  magnificent  and  the 
sea-glare  whitened  all  the  air  as  with  a  sort  of  God- 
presence,  they  gleamed  in  their  incandescent  sky-rosi- 
ness.  One  could  hardly  see  their  iron  trunks,  in  this 
weird  valley. 

But  already  we  had  crossed,  and  were  charging  up 
the  great  road  that  was  cut  straight,  slant-wise  along 
the  side  of  the  sea-hill,  like  a  stairway  outside  the  side 
of  the  house.  So  the  bus  turned  southward  to  run 
up  this  stairway  slant,  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  sea's 
long  table-land.  So,  we  emerged:  and  there  was  the 
Mediterranean  rippling  against  the  black  rocks  not 
so  very  far  away  below  on  our  right.  For,  once  on  the 

[  274  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

long  table-land  the  road  turned  due  north,  a  long 
white  dead-straight  road  running  between  strips  of 
moorland,  wild  and  bushy.  The  sea  was  in  the  near 
distance,  blue,  blue,  and  beating  with  light.  It  seemed 
more  light  than  watery.  And  on  the  left  was  the 
wide  trough  of  the  valley,  where  almond  trees  like 
clouds  in  a  wind  seemed  to  poise  sky-rosy  upon  the 
pale,  sun-pale  land,  and  beyond  which  Orosei  clustered 
its  lost  grey  houses  on  the  bluff.  Oh  wonderful 
Orosei  with  your  almonds  and  your  reedy  river,  throb- 
bing, throbbing  with  light  and  the  sea's  nearness,  and 
all  so  lost,  in  a  world  long  gone  by,  lingering  as  legends 
linger  on.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  it  is  real.  It 
seems  so  long  since  life  left  it  and  memory  transfigured 
it  into  pure  glamour,  lost  away  like  a  lost  pearl  on  the 
east  Sardinian  coast.  Yet  there  it  is,  with  a  few 
grumpy  inhabitants  who  won't  even  give  you  a  crust  of 
bread.  And  probably  there  is  malaria — almost  sure. 
And  it  would  be  hell  to  have  to  live  there  for  a  month. 
Yet  for  a  moment,  that  January  morning,  how  wonder- 
ful, oh,  the  timeless  glamour  of  those  Middle  Ages 
when  men  were  lordly  and  violent  and  shadowed  with 
death. 

"Timor  mortis  conturbat  me." 

The  road  ran  along  by  the  sea,  above  the  sea,  swing- 

[  275  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ing  gently  up  and  down,  and  running  on  to  a  sea-en- 
croaching hilly  promontory  in  the  distance.  There 
were  no  high  lands.  The  valley  was  left  behind,  and 
moors  surrounded  us,  wild,  desolate,  uninhabited  and 
uninhabitable  moors  sweeping  up  gently  on  the  left, 
and  finishing  where  the  land  dropped  low  and  clifflike 
to  the  sea  on  the  right.  No  life  was  now  in  sight:  even 
no  ship  upon  the  pale  blue  sea.  The  great  globe  of 
the  sky  was  unblemished  and  royal  in  its  blueness  and 
its  ringing  cerulean  light.  Over  the  moors  a  great 
hawk  hovered.  Rocks  cropped  out.  It  was  a  savage, 
dark-bushed,  sky-exposed  land,  forsaken  to  the  sea 
and  the  sun. 

We  were  alone  in  the  coupe.  The  bus-mate  had 
made  one  or  two  sets  at  us,  but  he  rather  confused  us. 
He  was  young — about  twenty-two  or  three.  He  was 
quite  good-looking,  with  his  rakish  military  cap  and  his 
well-knitted  figure  in  military  clothes.  But  he  had 
dark  eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  too  much,  and  his  man- 
ner of  approach  was  abrupt,  persistent,  and  disconcert- 
ing. Already  he  had  asked  us  where  we  were  going, 
where  we  lived,  whence  we  came,  of  what  nationality 
we  were,  and  was  I  a  painter.  Already  he  knew  so 
much.  Further  we  rather  fought  shy  of  him.  We 
ate  those  pale  Nuoro  pastries — they  were  just  flaky 

[  276  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

pastry,  good,  but  with  nothing  inside  but  a  breath  of  air. 
And  we  gnawed  slices  of  very  highly-flavoured  Nuoro 
sausage.  And  we  drank  the  tea.  And  we  were  very 
hungry,  for  it  was  past  noon,  and  we  had  eaten  as  good 
as  nothing.  The  sun  was  magnificent  in  heaven,  we 
rushed  at  a  great,  purring  speed  along  that  moorland 
road  just  above  the  sea. 

And  then  the  bus-mate  climbed  in  to  share  the  coupe 
with  us.  He  put  his  dark,  beseeching  and  yet  persist- 
ent eyes  on  us,  sat  plumb  in  front  of  us,  his  knees 
squared,  and  began  to  shout  awkward  questions  in  a 
strong  curious  voice.  Of  course  it  was  very  difficult 
to  hear,  for  the  great  rushing  bus  made  much  noise. 
We  had  to  try  to  yell  in  our  Italian — and  he  was  as 
awkward  as  we  were. 

However,  although  it  said  "Smoking  Forbidden"  he 
offered  us  both  cigarettes,  and  insisted  we  should  smoke 
with  him.  Easiest  to  submit.  He  tried  to  point  us 
out  features  in  the  landscape:  but  there  were  none  to 
point,  except  that,  where  the  hill  ran  to  sea  out  of  the 
moor,  and  formed  a  cape,  he  said  there  was  a  house 
away  under  the  cliffs  where  coastguards  lived.  Noth- 
ing else. 

Then,  however,  he  launched.  He  asked  once  more 
was  I  English  and  was  the  q-b  German.  We  said  it 
was  so.  And  then  he  started  the  old  story.  Nations 

[  277  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

popped  up  and  down  again  like  Punch  and  Judy. 
Italy — 1'Italia — she  had  no  quarrel  with  La  Germania 
— never  had  had — no — no,  good  friends  the  two  na- 
tions. But  once  the  war  was  started,  Italy  had  to  come 
in.  For  why.  Germany  would  beat  France,  occupy 
her  lands,  march  down  and  invade  Italy.  Best  then 
join  the  war  whilst  the  enemy  was  only  invading  some- 
body else's  territory. 

They  are  perfectly  naive  about  it.  That's  what  I 
like.  He  went  on  to  say  that  he  was  a  soldier:  he  had 
served  eight  years  in  the  Italian  cavalry.  Yes,  he  was 
a  cavalryman,  and  had  been  all  through  the  war.  But 
he  had  not  therefore  any  quarrel  with  Germany.  No 
— war  was  war,  and  it  was  over.  So  let  it  be  over. 

But  France — ma  la  Francia!  Here  he  sat  forward 
on  his  seat,  with  his  face  near  ours,  and  his  pleading- 
dog's  eyes  suddenly  took  a  look  of  quite  irrational  blaz- 
ing rage.  France!  There  wasn't  a  man  in  Italy  who 
wasn't  dying  to  get  at  the  throat  of  France.  France! 
Let  there  be  war,  and  every  Italian  would  leap  to  arms, 
even  the  old.  Even  the  old — anche  i  vecchi.  Yes, 
there  must  be  war — with  France.  It  was  coming:  it 
was  bound  to  come.  Every  Italian  was  waiting  for  it. 
Waiting  to  fly  at  the  French  throat.  For  why?  Why? 
He  had  served  two  years  on  the  French  front,  and  he 
knew  why.  Ah,  the  French!  For  arrogance,  for 

[  278  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

insolence,  Dio! — they  were  not  to  be  borne.  The 
French — they  thought  themselves  lords  of  the  world — 
signori  del  mondo!  Lords  of  the  world,  and  masters 
of  the  world.  Yes.  They  thought  themselves  no 
less — and  what  are  they?  Monkeys!  Monkeys!  Not 
better  than  monkeys.  But  let  there  be  war,  and  Italy 
would  show  them.  Italy  would  give  them  signori  del 
mondo!  Italy  was  pining  for  war — all,  all,  pining 
for  war.  With  no  one,  with  no  one  but  France.  Ah, 
with  no  one — Italy  loved  everybody  else — but  France! 
France! 

We  let  him  shout  it  all  out,  till  he  was  at  the  end  of 
it.  The  passion  and  energy  of  him  was  amazing.  He 
was  like  one  possessed.  I  could  only  wonder.  And 
wonder  again.  For  it  is  curious  what  fearful  passions 
these  pleading,  wistful  souls  fall  into  when  they  feel 
they  have  been  insulted.  It  was  evident  he  felt  he 
had  been  insulted,  and  he  went  just  beside  himself. 
But  dear  chap,  he  shouldn't  speak  so  loudly  for  all 
Italy — even  the  old.  The  bulk  of  Italian  men  are 
only  too  anxious  to  beat  their  bayonets  into  cigarette- 
holders,  and  smoke  the  cigarette  of  eternal  and  ever- 
lasting peace,  to  coincide  at  all  with  our  friend.  Yet 
there  he  was — raging  at  me  in  the  bus  as  we  dashed 
along  the  coast. 

And  then,  after  a  space  of  silence,  he  became  sad 
[  279  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

again,  wistful,  and  looked  at  us  once  more  with  those 
pleading  brown  eyes,  beseeching,  beseeching — he  knew 
not  what:  and  Pm  sure  I  didn't  know.  Perhaps  what 
he  really  wants  is  to  be  back  on  a  horse  in  a  cavalry 
regiment:  even  at  war. 

But  no,  it  comes  out,  what  he  thinks  he  wants. 

When  are  we  going  to  London?  And  are  there 
many  motor-cars  in  England? — many,  many?  In 
America  too?  Do  they  want  men  in  America?  I  say 
no,  they  have  unemployment  out  there:  they  are  going 
to  stop  immigration  in  April:  or  at  least  cut  it  down. 
Why?  he  asks  sharply.  Because  they  have  their  own 
unemployment  problem.  And  the  q-b  quotes  how 
many  millions  of  Europeans  want  to  emigrate  to  the 
United  States.  His  eye  becomes  gloomy.  Are  all 
nations  of  Europe  going  to  be  forbidden?  he  asks, 
Yes — and  already  the  Italian  Government  will  give 
no  more  passports  for  America — to  emigrants.  No 
passports?  then  you  can't  go?  You  can't  go,  say  I. 

By  this  time  his  hot-souled  eagerness  and  his  hot, 
beseeching  eyes  have  touched  the  q-b.  She  asks  him 
what  he  wants.  And  from  his  gloomy  face  it  comes  out 
in  a  rap.  "Andare  juori  dell'Italia"  To  go  out  of 
Italy.  To  go  out— r-away — to  go  away — to  go  away. 
It  has  become  a  craving,  a  neurasthenia  with  them. 

Where  is  his  home?     His  home  is  at  a  village  a  few 

1 280  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

miles  ahead — here  on  this  coast.  We  are  coming  to 
it  soon.  There  is  his  home.  And  a  few  miles  inland 
from  the  village  he  also  has  a  property:  he  also  has 
land.  But  he  doesn't  want  to  work  it.  He  doesn't 
want  it.  In  fact  he  won't  bother  with  it.  He  hates 
the  land,  he  detests  looking  after  vines.  He  can't 
even  bring  himself  to  try  any  more. 

What  does  he  want  then? 

He  wants  to  leave  Italy,  to  go  abroad — as  a  chauf- 
feur. Again  the  long  beseeching  look,  as  of  a  dis- 
traught, pleading  animal.  He  would  prefer  to  be  the 
chauffeur  of  a  gentleman.  But  he  would  drive  a  bus, 
he  would  do  anything — in  England. 

Now  he  has  launched  it.  Yes,  I  say,  but  in  England 
also  we  have  more  men  than  jobs.  Still  he  looks  at 
me  with  his  beseeching  eyes — so  desperate  too — and  so 
young — and  so  full  of  energy — and  so  longing  to 
devote  himself — to  devote  himself:  or  else  to  go  off 
in  an  unreasonable  paroxysm  against  the  French.  To 
my  horror  I  feel  he  is  believing  in  my  goodness  of 
heart.  And  as  for  motor-cars,  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  own 
a  pair  of  boots,  so  how  am  I  to  set  about  employing  a 
chauffeur? 

We  have  all  gone  quiet  again.  So  at  last  he  climbs 
back  and  takes  his  seat  with  the  driver  once  more.  The 

[  281   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

road  is  still  straight,  swinging  on  through  the  moor- 
land strip  by  the  sea.  And  he  leans  to  the  silent,  nerve- 
tense  Mr.  Rochester,  pleading  again.  And  at  length 
Mr.  Rochester  edges  aside,  and  lets  him  take  the  driv- 
ing wheel.  And  so  now  we  are  all  in  the  hands  of 
our  friend  the  bus-mate.  He  drives — not  very  well. 
It  is  evident  he  is  learning.  The  bus  can't  quite  keep 
in  the  grooves  of  this  wild  bare  road.  And  he  shuts 
off  when  we  slip  down  a  hill — and  there  is  a  great 
muddle  on  the  upslope  when  he  tries  to  change  gear. 
But  Mr.  Rochester  sits  squeezed  and  silently  attentive 
in  his  corner.  He  puts  out  his  hand  and  swings  the 
levers.  There  is  no  fear  that  he  will  let  anything  go 
wrong.  I  would  trust  him  to  drive  me  down  the  bot- 
tomless pit  and  up  the  other  side.  But  still  the  be- 
seeching mate  holds  the  steering  wheel.  And  on  we 
rush,  rather  uncertainly  and  hesitatingly  now.  And 
thus  we  come  to  the  bottom  of  a  hill  where  the  road 
gives  a  sudden  curve.  My  heart  rises  an  inch  in  my 
breast.  I  know  he  can't  do  it.  And  he  can't,  oh  Lord — 
but  the  quiet  hand  of  the  freckled  Rochester  takes  the 
wheel,  we  swerve  on.  And  the  bus-mate  gives  up,  and 
the  nerve-silent  driver  resumes  control. 

But  the  bus-mate  now  feels  at  home  with  us.     He 
clambers  back  into  the  coupe,  and  when  it  is  too  pain- 

282 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

fully  noisy  to  talk,  he  simply  sits  and  looks  at  us  with 
brown,  pleading  eyes.  Miles  and  miles  and  miles  goes 
this  coast  road,  and  never  a  village.  Once  or  twice  a 
sort  of  lonely  watch-house  and  soldiers  lying  about  by 
the  road.  But  never  a  halt.  Everywhere  moorland 
and  desert,  uninhabited. 

And  we  are  faint  with  fatigue  and  hunger  and  this 
relentless  travelling.  When,  oh  when  shall  we  come 
to  Siniscola,  where  we  are  due  to  eat  our  midday  meal? 
Oh  yes,  says  the  mate.  There  is  an  inn  at  Siniscola 
where  we  can  eat  what  we  like.  Siniscola — Siniscola! 
We  feel  we  must  get  down,  we  must  eat,  it  is  past  one 
o'clock  and  the  glaring  light  and  the  rushing  loneliness 
are  still  about  us. 

But  it  is  behind  the  hill  in  front.  We  see  the  hill? 
Yes.  Behind  it  is  Siniscola.  And  down  there  on  the 
beach  are  the  Bagni  di  Siniscola,  where  many  f  orestieri, 
strangers,  come  in  the  summer.  Therefore  we  set  high 
hopes  on  Siniscola.  From  the  town  to  the  sea,  two 
miles,  the  bathers  ride  on  asses.  Sweet  place.  And 
it  is  coming  near — really  near.  There  are  stone-fenced 
fields — even  stretches  of  moor  fenced  off.  There  are 
vegetables  in  a  little  field  with  a  stone  wall — there  is 
a  strange  white  track  through  the  moor  to  a  forsaken 
sea-coast.  We  are  near. 

[  283  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Over  the  brow  of  the  low  hill — and  there  it  is,  a 
grey  huddle  of  a  village  with  two  towers.  There  it 
is,  we  are  there.  Over  the  cobbles  we  bump,  and  pull 
up  at  the  side  of  the  street.  This  is  Siniscola,  and  here 
we  eat. 

We  drop  out  of  the  weary  bus.  The  mate  asks  a 
man  to  show  us  the  inn — the  man  says  he  won't,  mut- 
tering. So  a  boy  is  deputed — and  he  consents.  This 
is  the  welcome. 

And  I  can't  say  much  for  Siniscola.  It  is  just  a  nar- 
row, crude,  stony  place,  hot  in  the  sun,  cold  in  the 
shade.  In  a  minute  or  two  we  were  at  the  inn,  where 
a  fat,  young  man  was  just  dismounting  from  his  brown 
pony  and  fastening  it  to  a  ring  beside  the  door. 

The  inn  did  not  look  promising — the  usual  cold 
room  opening  gloomily  on  the  gloomy  street.  The 
usual  long  table,  with  this  time  a  foully  blotched  table- 
cloth. And  two  young  peasant  madams  in  charge,  in 
the  brown  costume,  rather  sordid,  and  with  folded 
white  cloths  on  their  heads.  The  younger  was  in  at- 
tendance. She  was  a  full-bosomed  young  hussy,  and 
would  be  very  queenly  and  cocky.  She  held  her  nose 
in  the  air,  and  seemed  ready  to  jibe  at  any  order.  It 
takes  one  some  time  to  get  used  to  this  cocky,  assertive 
behaviour  of  the  young  damsels,  the  who'11-tread-on- 
the-tail-of-my-skirt  bearing  of  the  hussies.  But  it 

1 284  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

is  partly  a  sort  of  crude  def  ensiveness  and  shyness,  partly 
it  is  barbaric  mefiance  or  mistrust,  and  partly,  without 
doubt,  it  is  a  tradition  with  Sardinian  women  that  they 
must  hold  their  own  and  be  ready  to  hit  first.  This 
young  sludge-queen  was  all  hit.  She  flounced  her  pos- 
terior round  the  table,  planking  down  the  lumps  of 
bread  on  the  foul  cloth  with  an  air  of  take-it-as-a-con- 
descension-that-I-wait-on-you,  a  subdued  grin  lurking 
somewhere  on  her  face.  It  is  not  meant  to  be  offensive: 
yet  it  is  so.  Truly,  it  is  just  uncouthness.  But  when 
one  is  tired  and  hungry  .  .  . 

We  were  not  the  only  feeders.  There  was  the  man 
off  the  pony,  and  a  sort  of  workman  or  porter  or  dazio 
official  with  him — and  a  smart  young  man:  and  later 
our  Hamlet  driver.  Bit  by  bit  the  young  damsel 
planked  down  bread,  plates,  spoons,  glasses,  bottles  of 
black  wine,  whilst  we  sat  at  the  dirty  table  in  uncouth 
constraint  and  looked  at  the  hideous  portrait  of  His 
reigning  Majesty  of  Italy.  And  at  length  came  the 
inevitable  soup.  And  with  it  the  sucking  chorus.  The 
little  maialino  at  Mandas  had  been  a  good  one.  But 
the  smart  young  man  in  the  country  beat  him.  As 
water  clutters  and  slavers  down  a  choky  gutter,  so  did 
his  soup  travel  upwards  into  his  mouth  with  one  long 
sucking  stream  of  noise,  intensified  as  the  bits  of  cab- 
bage, etc.,  found  their  way  through  the  orifice. 

[  285  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

They  did  all  the  talking — the  young  men.  They 
addressed  the  sludge-queen  curtly  and  disrespectfully, 
as  if  to  say:  "What's  she  up  to?"  Her  airs  were  finely 
thrown  away.  Still  she  showed  off.  What  else  was 
there  to  eat?  There  was  the  meat  that  had  been  boiled 
for  the  soup.  We  knew  what  that  meant.  I  had  as 
lief  eat  the  foot  of  an  old  worsted  stocking.  Nothing 
else,  you  sludge  queen?  No,  what  do  you  want  any- 
thing else  for? — Beefsteak — what's  the  good  of  asking 
for  beefsteak  or  any  other  steak  on  a  Monday.  Go  to 
the  butcher's  and  see  for  yourself. 

The  Hamlet,  the  pony  rider,  and  the  porter  had 
the  faded  and  tired  chunks  of  boiled  meat.  The  smart 
young  man  ordered  eggs  in  padella — two  eggs  fried 
with  a  little  butter.  We  asked  for  the  same.  The 
smart  young  man  got  his  first — and  of  course  they  were 
warm  and  liquid.  So  he  fell  upon  them  with  a  fork, 
and  once  he  had  got  hold  of  one  end  of  the  eggs  he 
just  sucked  them  up  in  a  prolonged  and  violent  suck, 
like  a  long,  thin,  ropy  drink  being  sucked  upwards  from 
the  little  pan.  It  was  a  genuine  exhibition.  Then  he 
fell  upon  the  bread  with  loud  chews. 

What  else  was  there?  A  miserable  little  common 
orange.  So  much  for  the  dinner.  Was  there  cheese? 
No.  But  the  sludge-queen — they  are  quite  good- 
natured  really — held  a  conversation  in  dialect  with  the 

[  286  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

young  men,  which  I  did  not  try  to  follow.  Our  pensive 
driver  translated  that  there  was  cheese,  but  it  wasn't 
good,  so  they  wouldn't  offer  it  us.  And  the  pony  man 
interpolated  that  they  didn't  like  to  offer  us  anything 
that  was  not  of  the  best.  He  said  it  in  all  sincerity — 
after  such  a  meal.  This  roused  my  curiosity,  so  I 
asked  for  the  cheese  whether  or  not.  And  it  wasn't 
so  bad  after  all. 

This  meal  cost  fifteen  francs,  for  the  pair  of  us. 

We  made  our  way  back  to  the  bus,  through  the  un- 
couth men  who  stood  about.  To  tell  the  truth, 
strangers  are  not  popular  nowadays — not  anywhere. 
Everybody  has  a  grudge  against  them  at  first  sight. 
This  grudge  may  or  may  not  wear  off  on  acquaintance. 

The  afternoon  had  become  hot — hot  as  an  English 
June.  And  we  had  various  other  passengers — for  one 
a  dark-eyed,  long-nosed  priest  who  showed  his  teeth 
when  he  talked.  There  was  not  much  room  in  the 
coupe,  so  the  goods  were  stowed  upon  the  little  rack. 

With  the  strength  of  the  sun,  and  the  six  or  seven 
people  in  it,  the  coupe  became  stifling.  The  q-b  opened 
her  window.  But  the  priest,  one  of  the  loudtalking 
sort,  said  that  a  draught  was  harmful,  very  harmful, 
so  he  put  it  up  again.  He  was  one  of  the  gregarious 
sort,  a  loud  talker,  nervy  really,  very  familiar  with 

[  287  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

all  the  passengers.  And  everything  did  one  harm — 
fa  male,  fa  male.  A  draught  fa  male,  fa  molto  male. 
Non  e  vero?  this  to  all  the  men  from  Siniscola.  And 
they  all  said  Yes — yes. 

The  bus-mate  clambered  into  the  coupe,  to  take  the 
tickets  of  the  second-class  passengers  in  the  rotondo, 
through  the  little  wicket.  There  was  great  squeezing 
and  shouting  and  reckoning  change.  And  then  we 
stopped  at  a  halt,  and  he  dashed  down  with  the  post 
and  the  priest  got  down  for  a  drink  with  the  other  men. 
The  Hamlet  driver  sat  stiff  in  his  seat.  He  pipped 
the  horn.  He  pipped  again,  with  decision.  Men  came 
clambering  in.  But  it  looked  as  if  the  offensive  priest 
would  be  left  behind.  The  bus  started  venomously, 
the  priest  came  running,  his  gown  flapping,  wiping  his 
lips. 

He  dropped  into  his  seat  with  a  cackling  laugh, 
showing  his  long  teeth.  And  he  said  that  it  was  as 
well  to  take  a  drink,  to  fortify  the  stomach.  To  travel 
with  the  stomach  uneasy  did  one  harm:  fa  male,  fa 
male — non  e  vero?  Chorus  of  "yes." 

The  bus-mate  resumed  his  taking  the  tickets  through 
the  little  wicket,  thrusting  his  rear  amongst  us.  As  he 
stood  like  this,  down  fell  his  sheepskin-lined  military 
overcoat  on  the  q-b's  head.  He  was  filled  with  grief. 
He  folded  it  and  placed  it  on  the  seat,  as  a  sort  of 

[  288  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

cushion  for  her,  oh  so  gently!  And  how  he  would  love 
to  devote  himself  to  a  master  and  mistress. 

He  sat  beside  me,  facing  the  q-b,  and  offered  us  an 
acid  drop.  We  took  the  acid  drop.  He  smiled  with 
zealous  yearning  at  the  q-b,  and  resumed  his  conver- 
sations. Then  he  offered  us  cigarettes — insisted  on 
our  taking  cigarettes. 

The  priest  with  the  long  teeth  looked  sideways  at 
the  q-b,  seeing  her  smoking.  Then  he  fished  out  a 
long  cigar,  bit  it,  and  spat.  He  was  offered  a  cig- 
arette.— But  no,  cigarettes  were  harmful:  fanno  male. 
The  paper  was  bad  for  the  health:  oh,  very  bad.  A 
pipe  or  a  cigar.  So  he  lit  his  long  cigar  and  spat  large 
spits  on  the  floor,  continually. 

Beside  me  sat  a  big,  bright-eyed,  rather  good-looking 
but  foolish  man.  Hearing  me  speak  to  the  q-b,  he 
said  in  confidence  to  the  priest:  "Here  are  two  Ger- 
mans— eh?  Look  at  them.  The  woman  smoking. 
These  are  a  couple  of  those  that  were  interned  here. 
Sardinia  can  do  without  them  now." 

Germans  in  Italy  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  were 
interned  in  Sardinia,  and  as  far  as  one  hears,  they  were 
left  very  free  and  happy,  and  treated  very  well,  the 
Sardinians  having  been  generous  as  all  proud  people 
are.  But  now  our  bright-eyed  fool  made  a  great  titter 
through  the  bus:  quite  unaware  that  we  understood. 

1 289  ] 


SEA  AND,  SARDINIA 

He  said  nothing  offensive:  but  that  sort  of  tittering 
exultation  of  common  people  who  think  they  have  you 
at  a  disadvantage  annoyed  me.  However,  I  kept  still 
to  hear  what  they  would  say.  But  it  was  only  triviali- 
ties about  the  Germans  having  nearly  all  gone  now, 
their  being  free  to  travel,  their  coming  back  to  Sar- 
dinia because  they  liked  it  better  than  Germany.  Oh 
yes — they  all  wanted  to  come  back.  They  all  wanted 
to  come  back  to  Sardinia.  Oh  yes,  they  knew  where 
they  were  well  off.  They  knew  their  own  advantage. 
Sardinia  was  this,  that,  and  the  other  of  advantageous- 
ness,  and  the  Sardi  were  decent  people.  It  is  just  as 
well  to  put  in  a  word  on  one's  own  behalf  occasionally. 
As  for  La  Germania — she  was  down,  down:  bassa. 
What  did  one  pay  for  bread  in  Germany?  Five  francs 
a  kilo,  my  boy. 

The  bus  stopped  again,  and  they  trooped  out  into  the 
hot  sun.  The  priest  scuffled  round  the  corner  this  time. 
Not  to  go  round  the  corner  was  no  doubt  harmful. 
We  waited.  A  frown  came  between  the  bus  Hamlet's 
brows.  He  looked  nerve-worn  and  tired.  It  was  about 
three  o'clock.  We  had  to  wait  for  a  man  from  a  vil- 
lage, with  the  post.  And  he  did  not  appear. 

"I  am  going!     I  won't  wait,"  said  the  driver. 

"Wait — wait  a  minute,"  said  the  mate,  pouring  oil. 
[  290  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

And  he  went  round  to  look.  But  suddenly  the  bus 
started,  with  a  vicious  lurch.  The  mate  came  flying 
and  hung  on  to  the  footboard.  He  had  really  almost 
been  left.  The  driver  glanced  round  sardonically  to 
see  if  he  were  there.  The  bus  flew  on.  The  mate 
shook  his  head  in  deprecation. 

"He's  a  bit  nervoso,  the  driver,"  said  the  q-b.  "A 
bit  out  of  temper!" 

"Ah,  poor  chap ! "  said  the  good-looking  young  mate, 
leaning  forward  and  making  such  beseeching  eyes  of 
hot  tolerance.  "One  has  to  be  sorry  for  him.  Per- 
sons like  him,  they  suffer  so  much  from  themselves, 
how  should  one  be  angry  with  them!  Poverino.  We 
must  have  sympathy." 

Never  was  such  a  language  of  sympathy  as  the 
Italian.  Poverino!  Povermo!  They  are  never  happy 
unless  they  are  sympathising  pityingly  with  somebody. 
And  I  rather  felt  that  I  was  thrown  in  with  the  poverini 
who  had  to  be  pitied  for  being  nervosi.  Which  did 
not  improve  my  temper. 

However,  the  bus-mate  suddenly  sat  on  the  opposite 
seat  between  the  priest  and  the  q-b.  He  turned  over 
his  official  note  book,  and  began  to  write  on  the  back 
cover  very  carefully,  in  the  flourishing  Italian  hand. 
Then  he  tore  off  what  he  had  written,  and  with  a  very 
bright  and  zealous  look  he  handed  me  the  paper  say- 

[  291  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

ing:  "You  will  find  me  a  post  in  England,  when  you  go 
in  the  summer?  You  will  find  me  a  place  in  London 
as  a  chauffeur — ! " 

"If  I  can,"  said  I.    "But  it  is  not  easy." 

He  nodded  his  head  at  me  with  the  most  complete 
bright  confidence,  quite  sure  now  that  he  had  settled 
his  case  perfectly. 

On  the  paper  he  had  written  his  name  and  his  ad- 
dress, and  if  anyone  would  like  him  as  chauffeur  they 
have  only  to  say  so.  On  the  back  of  the  scrap  of 
paper  the  inevitable  goodwill:  Auguri  infinite  e  buon 
Viaggio.  Infinite  good  wishes  and  a  good  journey. 

I  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in  my  waistcoat  pocket, 
feeling  a  trifle  disconcerted  by  my  new  responsibility. 
He  was  such  a  dear  fellow  and  such  bright  trustful 
eyes. 

This  much  achieved,  there  was  a  moment  of  silence. 
And  the  bus-mate  turned  to  take  a  ticket  of  a  fat,  com- 
fortable man  who  had  got  in  at  the  last  stop.  There 
was  a  bit  of  flying  conversation. 

"Where  are  they  from?"  asked  the  good-looking 
stupid  man  next  to  me,  inclining  his  head  in  our 
direction. 

"Londra"  said  our  friend,  with  stern  satisfaction: 
and  they  have  said  so  often  to  one  another  that  London 

[  292  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

is  the  greatest  city  in  the  world,  that  now  the  very  word 
Londra  conveys  it  all.  You  should  have  seen  the 
blank  little-boy  look  come  over  the  face  of  the  big 
handsome  fellow  on  hearing  that  we  were  citizens  of 
the  greatest  city  in  the  world. 

"And  they  understand  Italian?"  he  asked,  rather 
nipped. 

"Siccuro!"  said  our  friend  scornfully.  "How 
shouldn't  they?" 

"Ah!"  My  large  neighbour  left  his  mouth  open 
for  a  few  moments.  And  then  another  sort  of  smile 
came  on  to  his  face.  He  began  to  peep  at  us  sideways 
from  his  brown  eyes,  brightly,  and  was  henceforth 
itching  to  get  into  conversation  with  the  citizens  of  the 
world's  mistress-city.  His  look  of  semi-impudence  was 
quite  gone,  replaced  by  a  look  of  ingratiating  admira- 
tion. 

Now  I  ask  you,  is  this  to  be  borne?  Here  I  sit,  and 
he  talks  half-impudently  and  patronisingly  about  me. 
And  here  I  sit,  and  he  is  glegging  at  me  as  if  he  saw 
signs  of  an  aureole  under  my  grey  hat.  All  in  ten 
minutes.  And  just  because,  instead  of  la  Germanla 
I  turn  out  to  be  VInghtlterra.  I  might  as  well  be  a 
place  on  a  map,  or  a  piece  of  goods  with  a  trade-mark. 
So  little  perception  of  the  actual  me!  so  much  going 
by  labels!  I  now  could  have  kicked  him  harder.  I 

[  293   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

would  have  liked  to  say  I  was  ten  times  German,  to  see 
the  fool  change  his  smirk  again. 

The  priest  now  chimed  up,  that  he  had  been  to 
America.  He  had  been  to  America  and  hence  he 
dreaded  not  the  crossing  from  Terranuova  di  Sardegna 
to  Civita  Vecchia.  For  he  had  crossed  the  great 
Atlantic. 

Apparently,  however,  the  natives  had  all  heard  this 
song  of  the  raven  before,  so  he  spat  largely  on  the  floor. 
Whereupon  the  new  fat  neighbour  asked  him  was  it 
true  that  the  Catholic  Church  was  now  becoming  the 
one  Church  in  the  United  States?  And  the  priest  said 
there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 

The  hot  afternoon  wore  on.  The  coast  was  rather 
more  inhabited,  but  we  saw  practically  no  villages. 
The  view  was  rather  desolate.  From  time  to  time 
we  stopped  at  a  sordid-looking  canteen  house.  From 
time  to  time  we  passed  natives  riding  on  their  ponies, 
and  sometimes  there  was  an  equestrian  exhibition  as 
the  rough,  strong  little  beasts  reared  and  travelled 
rapidly  backwards,  away  from  the  horrors  of  our  great 
automobile.  But  the  male  riders  sat  heavy  and  un- 
shakeable,  with  Sardinian  male  force.  Everybody  in 
the  bus  laughed,  and  we  passed,  looking  back  to  see 

[  294  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

the  pony  still  corkscrewing,  but  in  vain,  in  the  middle 
of  the  lonely,  grass-bordered  high-road. 

The  bus-mate  climbed  in  and  out,  coming  in  to  sit 
near  us.  He  was  like  a  dove  which  has  at  last  found 
an  olive  bough  to  nest  in.  And  we  were  the  olive 
bough  in  this  world  of  waste  waters.  Alas,  I  felt  a 
broken  reed.  But  he  sat  so  serenely  near  us,  now, 
like  a  dog  that  has  found  a  master. 

The  afternoon  was  declining,  the  bus  pelted  on  at 
a  great  rate.  Ahead  we  saw  the  big  lump  of  the 
island  of  Tavolara,  a  magnificient  mass  of  rock  which 
fascinated  me  by  its  splendid,  weighty  form.  It  looks 
like  a  headland,  for  it  apparently  touches  the  land. 
There  it  rests  at  the  sea's  edge,  in  this  lost  afternoon 
world.  Strange  how  this  coast-country  does  not  be- 
long to  our  present-day  world.  As  we  rushed  along 
we  saw  steamers,  two  steamers,  steering  south,  and 
one  sailing  ship  coming  from  Italy.  And  instantly, 
the  steamers  seemed  like  our  own  familiar  world. 
But  still  this  coast-country  was  forsaken,  forgotten, 
not  included.  It  just  is  not  included. 

How  tired  one  gets  of  these  long,  long  rides!  It 
seemed  we  should  never  come  up  to  Tavolara.  But 
we  did.  We  came  right  near  to  it,  and  saw  the  beach 

[  295  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

with  the  waves  rippling  undisturbed,  saw  the  narrow 
waters  between  the  rock-lump  and  the  beach.  For 
now  the  road  was  down  at  sea-level.  And  we  were 
not  very  far  from  Terranova.  Yet  all  seemed  still 
forsaken,  outside  of  the  world's  life. 

The  sun  was  going  down,  very  red  and  strong,  away 
inland.  In  the  bus  all  were  silent,  subsiding  into  the 
pale  travel-sleep.  We  charged  along  the  flat  road, 
down  on  a  plain  now.  And  dusk  was  gathering  heav- 
ily over  the  land. 

We  saw  the  high-road  curve  flat  upon  the  plain.  It 
was  the  harbour  head.  We  saw  a  magic,  land-locked 
harbour,  with  masts  and  dark  land  encircling  a  glow- 
ing basin.  We  even  saw  a  steamer  lying  at  the  end 
of  a  long,  thin  bank  of  land,  in  the  shallow,  shining, 
wide  harbour,  as  if  wrecked  there.  And  this  was  our 
steamer.  But  no,  it  looked  in  the  powerful  glow  of 
the  sunset  like  some  lonely  steamer  laid  up  in  some 
landlocked  bay  away  at  Spitzbergen,  towards  the  North 
Pole:  a  solemn,  mysterious,  blue-landed  bay,  lost,  lost 
to  mankind. 

Our  bus-mate  came  and  told  us  we  were  to  sit  in 
the  bus  till  the  post-work  was  done,  then  we  should 
be  driven  to  the  hotel  where  we  could  eat,  and  then  he 
would  accompany  us  on  the  town  omnibus  to  the  boat. 

[  296  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

We  need  not  be  on  board  till  eight  o'clock:  and  now 
it  was  something  after  five.  So  we  sat  still  while 
the  bus  rushed  and  the  road  curved  and  the  view  of 
the  weird,  land-locked  harbour  changed,  though  the 
bare  masts  of  ships  in  a  bunch  still  pricked  the  upper 
glow,  and  the  steamer  lay  away  out,  as  if  wrecked  on 
a  sand-bank,  and  dark,  mysterious  land  with  bunchy 
hills  circled  round,  dark  blue  and  wintry  in  a  golden 
after-light,  while  the  great,  shallow-seeming  bay  of 
water  shone  like  a  mirror. 

In  we  charged,  past  a  railway,  along  the  flat  darken- 
ing road  into  a  flat  God-lost  town  of  dark  houses,  on 
the  marshy  bay-head.  It  felt  more  like  a  settlement 
than  a  town.  But  it  was  Terranova-Pausanias.  And 
after  bumping  and  rattling  down  a  sombre  uncouth, 
barren-seeming  street,  we  came  up  with  a  jerk  at  a 
doorway — which  was  the  post-office.  Urchins,  mud- 
larks, were  screaming  for  the  luggage.  Everybody 
got  out  and  set  off  towards  the  sea,  the  urchins  carry- 
ing luggage.  We  sat  still. 

Till  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  did  not  want  to  stay  in 
the  automobile  another  moment,  and  I  did  not,  I  did 
not  want  to  be  accompanied  by  our  new-found  friend 
to  the  steamer.  So  I  burst  out,  and  the  q-b  followed. 
She  too  was  relieved  to  escape  the  new  attachment, 

[   297  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

though  she  had  a  great  tendre  for  him.  But  in  the 
end  one  runs  away  from  one's  tendres  much  harder 
and  more  precipitately  than  from  one's  durs. 

The  mudlarking  urchins  fell  upon  us.  Had  we 
any  more  luggage — were  we  going  to  the  steamer?  I 
asked  how  one  went  to  the  steamer — did  one  walk? 
I  thought  perhaps  it  would  be  necessary  to  row  out. 
You  go  on  foot,  or  in  a  carriage,  or  in  an  aeroplane, 
said  an  impudent  brat.  How  far?  Ten  minutes.  Could 
one  go  on  board  at  once?  Yes,  certainly. 

So,  in  spite  of  the  q-b's  protests,  I  handed  the  sack 
to  a  wicked  urchin,  to  be  led.  She  wanted  us  to  go 
alone — but  I  did  not  know  the  way,  and  am  wary  of 
stumbling  into  entanglements  in  these  parts. 

I  told  the  bus-Hamlet,  who  was  abstract  with  nerve 
fatigue,  please  to  tell  his  comrade  that  I  would  not 
forget  the  commission:  and  I  tapped  my  waistcoat 
pocket,  where  the  paper  lay  over  my  heart.  He 
briefly  promised — and  we  escaped.  We  escaped  any 
further  friendship. 

I  bade  the  mud-lark  lead  me  to  the  telegraph  office: 
which  of  course  was  quite  remote  from  the  post-office. 
Shouldering  the  sack,  and  clamouring  for  the  kitchen- 
ino  which  the  q-b  stuck  to,  he  marched  forward.  By 
his  height  he  was  ten  years  old:  by  his  face  with  its 

[   298   ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

evil  mud-lark  pallor  and  good-looks,  he  was  forty. 
He  wore  a  cut-down  soldier's  tunic  which  came  nearly 
to  his  knees,  was  barefoot,  and  sprightly  with  that 
alert  mudlarking  quickness  which  has  its  advantages. 

So  we  went  down  a  passage  and  climbed  a  stair  and 
came  to  an  office  where  one  would  expect  to  register 
births  and  deaths.  But  the  urchin  said  it  was  the  tele- 
graph-office. No  sign  of  life.  Peering  through  the 
wicket  I  saw  a  fat  individual  seated  writing  in  the  dis- 
tance. Feeble  lights  relieved  the  big,  barren,  official 
spaces — I  wonder  the  fat  official  wasn't  afraid  to  be 
up  here  alone. 

He  made  no  move.  I  banged  the  shutter  and  de- 
manded a  telegraph  blank.  His  shoulders  went  up 
to  his  ears,  and  he  plainly  intimated  his  intention  to 
let  us  wait.  But  I  said  loudly  to  the  urchin:  "Is  that 
the  telegraph  official?"  and  the  urchin  said:  "Si 
signore" — so  the  fat  individual  had  to  come. 

After  which  considerable  delay,  we  set  off  again. 
The  bus,  thank  heaven,  had  gone,  the  savage  dark 
street  was  empty  of  friends.  We  turned  away  to  the 
harbour  front.  It  was  dark  now.  I  saw  a  railway 
near  at  hand — a  bunch  of  dark  masts — the  steamer 
showing  a  few  lights,  far  down  at  the  tip  of  a  long 
spit  of  land,  remote  in  mid-harbour.  And  so  off  we 

[   299  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

went,  the  barefoot  urchin  twinkling  a  few  yards  ahead, 
on  the  road  that  followed  the  spit  of  land.  The  spit 
was  wide  enough  to  carry  this  road,  and  a  railway. 
On  the  right  was  a  silent  house  apparently  built  on 
piles  in  the  harbour.  Away  far  down  in  front  leaned 
our  glimmering  steamer,  and  a  little  train  was  shunt- 
ing trucks  among  the  low  sheds  beside  it.  Night  had 
fallen,  and  the  great  stars  flashed.  Orion  was  in  the 
air,  and  his  dog-star  after  him.  We  followed  on  down 
the  dark  bar  between  the  silent,  lustrous  water.  The 
harbour  was  smooth  as  glass,  and  gleaming  like  a  mir- 
ror. Hills  came  round  encircling  it  entirely — dark 
land  ridging  up  and  lying  away  out,  even  to  seaward. 
One  was  not  sure  which  was  exactly  seaward.  The 
dark  encircling  of  the  land  seemed  stealthy,  the  hills 
had  a  remoteness,  guarding  the  waters  in  the  silence. 
Perhaps  the  great  mass  away  beyond  was  Tavolara 
again.  It  seemed  like  some  lumpish  berg  guarding 
an  arctic,  locked-up  bay  where  ships  lay  dead. 

On  and  on  we  followed  the  urchin,  till  the  town  was 
left  behind,  until  it  also  twinkled  a  few  meagre  lights 
out  of  its  low,  confused  blackness  at  the  bay-head, 
across  the  waters.  We  had  left  the  ship-masts  and 
the  settlement.  The  urchin  padded  on,  only  turning 
now  and  again  and  extending  a  thin,  eager  hand 
towards  the  kitchenino.  Especially  when  some  men 

[  300  ] 


il 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

were  advancing  down  the  railway  he  wanted  it:  the 
q-b's  carrying  it  was  a  slur  on  his  prowess.  So  the 
kitchenino  was  relinquished,  and  the  lark  strode  on 
satisfied. 

Till  at  last  we  came  to  the  low  sheds  that  squatted 
between  the  steamer  and  the  railway-end.  The  lark 
led  me  into  one,  where  a  red-cap  was  writing.  The 
cap  let  me  wait  some  minutes  before  informing  me 
that  this  was  the  goods  office — the  ticket  office  was 
further  on.  The  lark  flew  at  him  and  said  "Then 
you've  changed  it,  have  you?"  And  he  led  me  on  to 
another  shed,  which  was  just  going  to  shut  up.  Here 
they  finally  had  the  condescension  to  give  me  two 
tickets — a  hundred  and  fifty  francs  the  two.  So  we 
followed  the  lark  who  strode  like  Scipio  Africanus  up 
the  gangway  with  the  sack. 

It  was  quite  a  small  ship.  The  steward  put  me  in 
number  one  cabin — the  q-b  in  number  seven.  Each 
cabin  had  four  berths.  Consequently  man  and  woman 
must  separate  rigorously  on  this  ship.  Here  was  a 
blow  for  the  q-b,  who  knows  what  Italian  female  fel- 
low-passengers can  be.  However,  there  we  were.  All 
the  cabins  were  down  below,  and  all,  for  some  myster- 
ious reason,  inside— no  portholes  outside.  It  was  hot 

[  301  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

and  close  down  below  already.  I  pitched  the  sack  on 
my  berth,  and  there  stood  the  lark  on  the  red  carpet 
at  the  door. 

I  gave  him  three  francs.  He  looked  at  it  as  if  it 
were  my  death-warrant.  He  peered  at  the  paper  in 
the  light  of  the  lamp.  Then  he  extended  his  arm 
with  a  gesture  of  superb  insolence,  flinging  me  back 
my  gold  without  a  word. 

"How!"  said  I.     "Three  francs  are  quite  enough." 

"Three  francs — two  kilometers — and  three  pieces 
of  luggage!  No  signore.  No!  Five  francs.  Cin- 
que franchi!"  And  averting  his  pallid,  old  mud- 
larking  face,  and  flinging  his  hand  out  at  me,  he  stood 
the  image  of  indignant  repudiation.  And  truly,  he 
was  no  taller  than  my  upper  waistcoat  pocket.  The 
brat!  The  brat!  He  was  such  an  actor,  and  so  im- 
pudent, that  I  wavered  between  wonder  and  amuse- 
ment and  a  great  inclination  to  kick  him  up  the  steps. 
I  decided  not  to  waste  my  energy  being  angry. 

"What  a  beastly  little  boy!  What  a  horrid  little 
boy!  What  a  horrid  little  boy!  Really — a  little 
thief.  A  little  swindler!"  I  mused  aloud. 

"Swindler!"  he  quavered  after  me.  And  he  was 
beaten.  "Swindler"  doubled  him  up:  that  and  the 
quiet  mildness  of  my  tone  of  invocation.  Now  he 

[  302  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

would  have  gone  with  his  three  francs.     And  now, 
in  final  contempt,  I  gave  him  the  other  two. 

He  disappeared  like  a  streak  of  lightning  up  the 
gangway,  terrified  lest  the  steward  should  come  and 
catch  him  at  his  tricks.  For  later  on  I  saw  the  steward 
send  other  larks  flying  for  demanding  more  than  one- 
fifty.  The  brat. 

The  question  was  now  the  cabin:  for  the  q-b  simply 
refused  to  entertain  the  idea  of  sharing  a  cabin  with 
three  Italian  women,  who  would  all  be  sick  simply 
for  the  fuss  of  it,  though  the  sea  was  smooth  as  glass. 
We  hunted  up  the  steward.  He  said  all  the  first-class 
cabins  had  four  berths — the  second  had  three,  but 
much  smaller.  How  that  was  possible  I  don't  know. 
However,  if  no  one  came,  he  would  give  us  a  cabin 
to  ourselves. 

The  ship  was  clean  and  civilised,  though  very  poky. 
And  there  we  were. 

We  went  on  deck.  Would  we  eat  on  board,  asked 
another  person.  No,  we  wouldn't.  We  went  out  to 
a  fourth  little  shed,  which  was  a  refreshment  stall,  and 
bought  bread  and  sardines  and  chocolate  and  apples. 
Then  we  went  on  the  upper  deck  to  make  our  meal. 
In  a  sheltered  place  I  lit  the  spirit  lamp,  and  put  on 

[  303   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

water  to  boil.  The  water  we  had  taken  from  the  cabin. 
Then  we  sat  down  alone  in  the  darkness,  on  a  seat 
which  had  its  back  against  the  deck  cabins,  now  ap- 
propriated by  the  staff.  A  thin,  cold  wind  was  travel- 
ling. We  wrapped  the  one  plaid  round  us  both  and 
snugged  together,  waiting  for  the  tea  to  boil.  I  could 
just  see  the  point  of  the  spirit-flame  licking  up,  from 
where  we  sat. 

The  stars  were  marvellous  in  the  soundless  sky,  so 
big,  that  one  could  see  them  hanging  orb-like  and 
alone  in  their  own  space,  yet  all  the  myriads.  Particu- 
larly bright  the  evening-star.  And  he  hung  flashing 
in  the  lower  night  with  a  power  that  made  me  hold 
my  breath.  Grand  and  powerful  he  sent  out  his 
flashes,  so  sparkling  that  he  seemed  more  intense  than 
any  sun  or  moon.  And  from  the  dark,  uprising  land 
he  sent  his  way  of  light  to  us  across  the  water,  a  mar- 
vellous star-road.  So  all  above  us  the  stars  soared 
and  pulsed,  over  that  silent,  night-dark,  land-locked 
harbour. 

After  a  long  time  the  water  boiled,  and  we  drank 
our  hot  tea  and  ate  our  sardines  and  bread  and  bits  of 
remaining  Nuoro  sausage,  sitting  there  alone  in  the 
intense  starry  darkness  of  that  upper  deck.  I  said 

[   304  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

alone:  but  no,  two  ghoulish  ship's  cats  came  howling 
at  us  for  the  bits.  And  even  when  everything  was 
eaten,  and  the  sardine-tin  thrown  in  the  sea,  still  they 
circled  and  prowled  and  howled. 

We  sat  on,  resting  under  the  magnificient  deep  heav- 
ens, wrapped  together  in  the  old  shepherd's  shawl  for 
which  I  have  blessed  so  often  a  Scottish  friend,  half 
sheltered  from  the  cold  night  wind,  and  recovering 
somewhat  from  the  sixty  miles  bus-ride  we  had  done 
that  day. 

As  yet  there  was  nobody  on  the  ship — we  were  the 
very  first,  at  least  in  the  first  class.  Above,  all  was 
silent  and  deserted.  Below,  all  was  lit-up  and  de- 
serted. But  it  was  a  little  ship,  with  accommodation 
for  some  thirty  first-class  and  forty  second-class  pass- 
engers. 

In  the  low  deck  forward  stood  two  rows  of  cattle — 
eighteen  cattle.  They  stood  tied  up  side  by  side,  and 
quite  motionless,  as  if  stupefied.  Only  two  had  lain 
down.  The  rest  stood  motionless,  with  tails  dropped 
and  heads  dropped,  as  if  drugged  or  gone  insensible. 
These  cattle  on  the  ship  fascinated  the  q-b.  She  in- 
sisted on  going  down  to  them,  and  examining  them 
minutely.  But  there  they  were — stiff  almost  as  Noah's 
Ark  cows.  What  she  could  not  understand  was  that 
they  neither  cried  nor  struggled.  Motionless — terri- 

[  305  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

bly  motionless.  In  her  idea  cattle  are  wild  and  indom- 
itable creatures.  She  will  not  realise  the  horrid 
strength  of  passivity  and  inertia  which  is  almost  the 
preponderant  force  in  domesticated  creatures,  men  and 
beast  alike.  There  are  fowls  too  in  various  coops — 
flappy  and  agitated  these. 

At  last,  at  about  half  past  seven  the  train  from  the 
island  arrived,  and  the  people  surged  out  in  a  mass. 
We  stood  hanging  over  the  end  of  the  upper  deck, 
looking  down.  On  they  poured,  in  a  thick  mass,  up 
the  gangway,  with  all  conceivable  sorts  of  luggage: 
bundles,  embroidered  carry-alls,  bags,  saddle-bags — 
the  q-b  lamenting  she  had  not  bought  one — a  sudden 
surging  mass  of  people  and  goods.  There  are  soldiers 
too — but  these  are  lined  upon  the  bit  of  a  quay,  to 
wait. 

Our  interest  is  to  see  whether  there  will  be  any  more 
first-class  passengers.  Coming  up  the  wide  board 
which  serves  as  .gangway  each  individual  hands  a  ticket 
to  the  man  at  the  top,  and  is  shooed  away  to  his  own 
region — usually  second  class.  There  are  three  sorts 
of  tickets — green  first-class,  white  second,  and  pink 
third.  The  second-class  passengers  go  aft,  the  third 
class  go  forward,  along  the  passage  past  our  cabins, 
into  the  steerage.  And  so  we  watch  and  watch  the 

[  306  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

excited  people  come  on  board  and  divide.  Nearly 
all  are  second-class — and  a  great  many  are  women. 
We  have  seen  a  few  first-class  men.  But  as  yet  no 
women.  And  every  hat  with  ospreys  gives  the  q-b 
a  qualm. 

For  a  long  time  we  are  safe.  The  women  flood  to 
the  second-class.  One  who  is  third,  begs  and  beseeches 
to  go  with  her  friends  in  the  second.  I  am  glad  to 
say  without  success.  And  then,  alas,  an  elderly  man 
with  a  daughter,  first-class.  They  are  very  respectable 
and  pleasant  looking.  But  the  q-b  wails:  "I'm  sure 
she  will  be  sick." 

Towards  the  end  come  three  convicts,  chained  to- 
gether. They  wear  the  brownish  striped  homespun, 
and  do  not  look  evil.  They  seem  to  be  laughing  to- 
gether, not  at  all  in  distress.  The  two  young  soldiers 
who  guard  them,  and  who  have  guns,  look  nervous.  So 
the  convicts  go  forward  to  the  steerage,  past  our  cabins. 

At  last  the  soldiers  are  straightened  up,  and  turned 
on  board.  There  almost  at  once  they  start  making 
a  tent:  drawing  a  huge  tarpaulin  over  a  cross  rope  in 
the  mid-deck  below  us,  between  the  first  and  second 
class  regions.  The  great  tarpaulin  is  pulled  down  well 
on  either  side  and  fastened  down,  and  it  makes  a  big 

[   307  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

dark  tent.  The  soldiers  creep  in  and  place  their 
bundles. 

And  now  it  is  the  soldiers  who  fascinate  the  q-b.  She 
hangs  over  the  bar  above,  and  peers  in.  The  soldiers 
arrange  themselves  in  two  rows.  They  will  sleep 
with  their  heads  on  their  bundles  on  either  side  of  the 
tent,  the  two  rows  of  feet  coming  together  inwards. 
But  first  they  must  eat,  for  it  is  eight  o'clock  and  more. 

Out  come  their  suppers:  a  whole  roast  fowl,  hunks 
of  kid,  legs  of  lamb,  huge  breads.  The  fowl  is  dis- 
membered with  a  jackknife  in  a  twinkling,  and  shared. 
Everything  among  the  soldiers  is  shared.  There  they 
sit  in  their  pent-house  with  its  open  ends,  crowded  to- 
gether and  happy,  chewing  with  all  their  might  and 
clapping  one  another  on  the  shoulder  lovingly,  and 
taking  swigs  at  the  wine  bottles.  We  envy  them  their 
good  food. 

At  last  all  are  on  board — the  omnibus  has  driven 
up  from  town  and  gone  back.  A  last  young  lout  dashes 
up  in  a  carriage  and  scuffles  aboard.  The  crew  begins 
to  run  about.  The  quay-porters  have  trotted  on  board 
with  the  last  bales  and  packages — all  is  stowed  safely. 
The  steamer  hoots  and  hoots.  Two  men  and  a  girl 
kiss  their  friends  all  round  and  get  off  the  ship. 
The  night  re-echoes  the  steamer's  hoots.  The  sheds 

[  308  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

have  gone  all  dark.  Far  off  the  town  twinkles  very 
sparsely.  All  is  night-deserted.  And  so  the  gang- 
way is  hauled  up,  and  the  rope  hawsers  quickly  wound 
in.  We  are  drifting  away  from  the  quay  side.  The 
few  watchers  wave  their  white  handkerchiefs,  stand- 
ing diminutive  and  forlorn  on  the  dark  little  quay,  in 
the  heart  of  the  dark,  deserted  harbour.  One  woman 
cries  and  waves  and  weeps.  A  man  makes  exaggerated 
flag-wagging  signals  with  his  white  handky,  and  feels 
important.  We  drift — and  the  engines  begin  to  beat. 
We  are  moving  in  the  land-locked  harbour. 

Everybody  watches.  The  commander  and  the  crew 
shout  orders.  And  so,  very  slowly,  and  without  any 
fuss  at  all,  like  a  man  wheeling  a  barrow  out  of  a 
yard  gate,  we  throb  very  slowly  out  of  the  harbour, 
past  one  point,  then  past  another,  away  from  the  en- 
circling hills,  away  from  the  great  lump  of  Tavolara 
which  is  to  southward,  away  from  the  outreaching  land 
to  the  north,  and  over  the  edge  of  the  open  sea. 

And  now  to  try  for  a  cabin  to  ourselves.  I  approach 
the  steward.  Yes,  he  says,  he  has  it  in  mind.  But 
there  are  eighty  second-class  passengers,  in  an  accom- 
modation space  for  forty.  The  transit-controller  is 
now  considering  it.  Most  probably  he  will  transfer 

[   309   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

some  second-class  women  to  the  vacant  first-class  cabins. 
If  he  does  not  do  so,  then  the  steward  will  accom- 
modate us. 

I  know  what  this  means — this  equivocation.  We 
decide  not  to  bother  any  more.  So  we  make  a  tour 
of  the  ship — to  look  at  the  soldiers,  who  have  finished 
eating,  sitting  yarning  to  one  another,  while  some  are 
already  stretched  out  in  the  shadow,  for  sleep.  Then 
to  look  at  the  cattle,  which  stand  rooted  to  the  deck — 
which  is  now  all  messy.  To  look  at  the  unhappy 
fowls  in  their  coops.  And  a  peep  at  the  third-class — 
rather  horrifying. 

And  so  to  bed.  Already  the  other  three  berths  in 
my  cabin  are  occupied,  the  lights  are  switched  off .  As 
I  enter  I  hear  one  young  man  tenderly  enquiring  of 
the  berth  below:  "Dost  thou  feel  ill?"  "Er — not 
much — not  much!"  says  the  other  faintly. 

Yet  the  sea  is  like  glass,  so  smooth. 

I  am  quickly  rolled  in  my  lower  berth,  where  I 
feel  the  trembling  of  the  machine-impelled  ship,  and 
hear  the  creaking  of  the  berth  above  me  as  its  occupant 
rolls  over:  I  listen  to  the  sighs  of  the  others,  the  wash 
of  dark  water.  And  so,  uneasily,  rather  hot  and  very 
airless,  uneasy  with  the  machine-throbbing  and  the 
sighing  of  my  companions,  and  with  a  cock  that  crows 
shrilly  from  one  of  the  coops,  imagining  the  ship's 

[  310  ] 


TO  TERRANOVA  AND  THE  STEAMER 

lights  to  be  dawn,  the  night  goes  by.  One  sleeps — 
but  a  bad  sleep.  If  only  there  were  cold  air,  not  this 
lower-berth,  inside  cabin  airlessness. 


VIII. 
BACK. 

THE  sea  being  steady  as  a  level  road,  nobody 
succeeded  in  being  violently  sick.     My  young 
men    rose    at    dawn — I    was    not    long    in 
following.     It  was  a  gray  morning  on  deck,  a  gray  sea, 
a   gray   sky,   and   a   gray,   spider-cloth,    unimportant 
coast  of  Italy  not  far  away.     The  q-b  joined  me:  and 
quite  delighted  with  her  fellow-passenger:  such  a  nice 
girl,  she  said!  who,  when  she  let  down  her  ordinary- 
looking  brown  hair,  it  reached  rippling  right  to  her 
feet!     Voila!     You  never  know  your  luck. 

The  cock  that  had  crowed  all  night  crowed  again, 
hoarsely,  with  a  sore  throat.  The  miserable  cattle 
looked  more  wearily  miserable,  but  still  were  motion- 
less, as  sponges  that  grow  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
The  convicts  were  out  for  air:  grinning.  Someone  told 
us  they  were  war-deserters.  Considering  the  light  in 
which  these  people  look  on  war,  desertion  seemed  to 
me  the  only  heroism.  But  the  q-b,  brought  up  in  a 
military  air,  gazed  upon  them  as  upon  men  mirac- 


BACK 

ulously  alive  within  the  shadow  of  death.  According 
to  her  code  they  had  been  shot  when  re-captured.  The 
soldiers  had  unslung  the  tarpaulin,  their  home  for  the 
night  had  melted  with  the  darkness,  they  were  mere 
fragments  of  gray  transit  smoking  cigarettes  and  staring 
overboard. 

We  drew  near  to  Civita  Vecchia:  the  old,  mediae- 
val looking  port,  with  its  castle,  and  a  round  fortress- 
barracks  at  the  entrance.  Soldiers  aboard  shouted  and 
waved  to  soldiers  on  the  ramparts.  We  backed  in- 
significantly into  the  rather  scrubby,  insignificant  har- 
bour. And  in  five  minutes  we  were  out,  and  walking 
along  the  wide,  desolate  boulevard  to  the  station.  The 
cab-men  looked  hard  at  us:  but  no  doubt  owing  to  the 
knapsack,  took  us  for  poor  Germans. 

Coffee  and  milk — and  then,  only  about  three-quart- 
ers of  an  hour  late,  the  train  from  the  north.  It  is 
the  night  express  from  Turin.  There  was  plenty  of 
room — so  in  we  got,  followed  by  half  a  dozen  Sardin- 
ians. We  found  a  large,  heavy  Torinese  in  the  car- 
riage, his  eyes  dead  with  fatigue.  It  seemed  quite  a 
new  world  on  the  mainland:  and  at  once  one  breathed 
again  the  curious  suspense  that  is  in  the  air.  Once 
more  I  read  the  Corriere  della  Sera  from  end  to  end. 
Once  more  we  knew  ourselves  in  the  real  active  world, 

:  [313] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

where  the  air  seems  like  a  lively  wine  dissolving  the 
pearl  of  the  old  order.  I  hope,  dear  reader,  you  like 
the  metaphor.  Yet  I  cannot  forbear  repeating  how 
strongly  one  is  sensible  of  the  solvent  property  of  the 
atmosphere,  suddenly  arriving  on  the  mainland  again. 
And  in  an  hour  one  changes  one's  psyche.  The  hu- 
man being  is  a  most  curious  creature.  He  thinks  he 
has  got  one  soul,  and  he  has  got  dozens.  I  felt  my 
sound  Sardinian  soul  melting  off  me,  I  felt  myself 
evaporating  into  the  real  Italian  uncertainty  and  mo- 
mentaneity.  So  I  perused  the  Corriere  whilst  the 
metamorphosis  took  place.  I  like  Italian  newspapers 
because  they  say  what  they  mean,  and  not  merely  what 
is  most  convenient  to  say.  We  call  it  naivete — I  call 
it  manliness.  Italian  newspapers  read  as  if  they  were 
written  by  men,  and  not  by  calculating  eunuchs. 

The  train  ran  very  heavily  along  the  Maremma.  It 
began  to  rain.  Then  we  stopped  at  a  station  where 
we  should  not  stop — somewhere  in  the  Maremma 
country,  the  invisible  sea  not  far  off,  the  low  country 
cultivated  and  yet  forlorn.  Oh  how  the  Turin  man 
sighed,  and  wearily  shifted  his  feet  as  the  train  stood 
meaningless.  There  it  sat — in  the  rain.  Oh  express! 

At  last  on  again,  till  we  were  winding  through  the 
curious  long  troughs  of  the  Roman  Campagna.  There 

[  3H  3 


BACK 

the  shepherds  minded  the  sheep:  the  slender-footed 
merino  sheep.  In  Sardinia  the  merinos  were  very 
white  and  glistening,  so  that  one  thought  of  the  Script- 
ural "white  as  wool."  And  the  black  sheep  among 
the  flock  were  very  black.  But  these  Campagna  were 
no  longer  white,  but  dingy.  And  though  the  wildness 
of  the  Campagna  is  a  real  wildness  still,  it  is  a  historic 
wildness,  familiar  in  its  way  as  a  fireside  is  familiar. 

So  we  approach  the  hopeless  sprawling  of  modern 
Rome — over  the  yellow  Tiber,  past  the  famous  pyra- 
mid tomb,  skirting  the  walls  of  the  city,  till  at  last  we 
plunge  in,  into  the  well-known  station,  out  of  all  the 
chaos. 

We  are  late.  It  is  a  quarter  to  twelve.  And  I 
have  to  go  out  and  change  money,  and  I  hope  to  find 
my  two  friends. — The  q-b  and  I  dash  down  the  plat- 
form— no  friends  at  the  barrier.  The  station  moder- 
ately empty.  We  bolt  across  to  the  departure  plat- 
forms. The  Naples  train  stands  ready.  In  we  pitch 
our  bags,  ask  a  naval  man  not  to  let  anyone  steal  them, 
then  I  fly  out  into  town  while  the  q-b  buys  food  and 
wine  at  the  buffet. 

It  no  longer  rains,  and  Rome  feels  as  ever — rather 
holiday-like  and  not  inclined  to  care  about  anything. 
I  get  a  hundred  and  three  lira  for  each  pound  note: 
pocket  my  money  at  two  minutes  past  twelve,  and  bolt 

[  315  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

back,  out  of  the  Piazza  delle  Terme.  Aha,  there  are 
the  two  missing  ones,  just  descending  vaguely  from  a 
carriage,  the  one  gazing  inquiringly  through  his  mono- 
cle across  the  tram-lines,  the  other  very  tall  and  alert 
and  elegant,  looking  as  if  he  expected  us  to  appear  out 
of  the  air  for  his  convenience. 

Which  is  exactly  what  happens.  We  fly  into  each 
other's  arms.  "Oh  there  you  are!  Where's  the  q-b? 
Why  are  you  here?  We've  been  to  the  arrival  plat- 
form— no  sign  of  you.  Of  course  I  only  got  your  wire 
half  an  hour  ago.  We  flew  here.  Well,  how  nice 
to  see  you. — Oh,  let  the  man  wait. — What,  going  on 
at  once  to  Naples?  But  must  you?  Oh,  but  how 
flighty  you  are!  Birds  of  passage  veramente!  Then 
let  us  find  the  q-b,  quick! — And  they  won't  let  us  on 
the  platform.  No,  they're  not  issuing  platform  tick- 
ets today. — Oh,  merely  the  guests  returning  from 
that  Savoy-Bavarian  wedding  in  the  north,  a  few  royal 
Duchesses  about.  Oh  well,  we  must  try  and  wangle 
him." 

At  the  barrier  a  woman  trying  in  vain  to  be  let  on 
to  the  station.  But  what  a  Roman  matron  can't  do,  an 
elegant  young  Englishman  can.  So  our  two  heroes 
wangle  their  way  in,  and  fall  into  the  arms  of  the  q-b 
by  the  Naples  train.  Well,  now,  tell  us  all  about  it! 
So  we  rush  into  a  four-branched  candlestick  of  con- 

[  316  ] 


BACK 

versation.  In  my  ear  murmurs  he  of  the  monocle 
about  the  Sahara — he  is  back  from  the  Sahara  a  week 
ago:  the  winter  sun  in  the  Sahara!  He  with  the 
smears  of  paint  on  his  elegant  trousers  is  giving  the 
q-b  a  sketchy  outline  of  his  now  grande  passion.  Click 
goes  the  exchange,  and  him  of  the  monocle  is  detailing 
to  the  q-b  his  trip  to  Japan,  on  which  he  will  start  in 
six  weeks'  time,  while  him  of  the  paint-smears  is  ex- 
patiating on  the  thrills  of  the  etching  needle,  and  con- 
cocting a  plan  for  a  month  in  Sardinia  in  May,  with 
me  doing  the  scribbles  and  he  the  pictures.  What  sort 
of  pictures?  Out  flies  the  name  of  Goya. — And  well 
now,  a  general  rush  into  oneness,  and  won't  they  come 
down  to  Sicily  to  us  for  the  almond  blossom:  in  about 
ten  days'  time.  Yes  they  will — wire  when  the  almond 
blossom  is  just  stepping  on  the  stage  and  making  its 
grand  bow,  and  they  will  come  next  day.  Somebody 
has  smitten  the  wheel  of  a  coach  two  ringing  smacks 
with  a  hammer.  This  is  a  sign  to  get  in.  The  q-b  is 
terrified  the  train  will  slip  through  her  fingers.  "I'm 
frightened,  I  must  get  in." — "Very  well  then! 
You're  sure  you  have  everything  you  want?  Every- 
thing? A  fiasco  of  vino?  Oh  two!  All  the  better! 
Well  then — ten  days'  time.  All  right — quite  sure — 
how  nice  to  have  seen  you,  if  only  a  glimpse. — Yes, 

[  317  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

yes,  poor  q-b!     Yes,  you're  quite  safe.     Good-bye! 
Good-bye!" 

The  door  is  shut — we  are  seated — the  train  moves 
out  of  the  station.  And  quickly  on  this  route  Rome 
disappears.  We  are  out  on  the  wintry  Campagna, 
where  crops  are  going.  Away  on  the  left  we  see  the 
Tivoli  hills,  and  think  of  the  summer  that  is  gone,  the 
heat,  the  fountains  of  the  Villa  D'Este.  The  train 
rolls  heavily  over  the  Campagna,  towards  the  Alban 
Mounts,  homewards. 

So  we  fall  on  our  food,  and  devour  the  excellent 
little  beef-steaks  and  rolls  and  boiled  eggs,  apples  and 
oranges  and  dates,  and  drink  the  good  red  wine,  and 
wildly  discuss  plans  and  the  latest  news,  and  are  alto- 
gether thrilled  about  things.  So  thrilled  that  we  are 
well  away  among  the  romantic  mountains  of  the  south- 
centre  before  we  realise  that  there  are  other  passengers 
besides  ourselves  in  the  carriage.  Half  the  journey  is 
over.  Why,  there  is  the  monastery  on  its  high  hill! 
In  a  wild  moment  I  suggest  we  shall  get  down  and 
spend  a  night  up  there  at  Montecassino,  and  see  the 
other  friend,  the  monk  who  knows  so  much  about  the 
world,  being  out  of  it.  But  the  q-b  shudders,  think- 
ing of  the  awful  winter  coldness  of  that  massive  stone 
monastery,  which  has  no  spark  of  heating  apparatus. 

[  318  ] 


BACK 

And  therefore  the  plan  subsides,  and  at  Cassino  station 
I  only  get  down  to  procure  coffee  and  sweet  cakes. 
They  always  have  good  things  to  eat  at  Cassino  sta- 
tion: in  summer,  big  fresh  ices  and  fruits  and  iced 
water,  in  winter  toothsome  sweet  cakes  which  make  an 
awfully  good  finish  to  a  meal. 

I  count  Cassino  half  way  to  Naples.  After  Cassino 
the  excitement  of  being  in  the  north  begins  quite  to 
evaporate.  The  southern  heaviness  descends  upon  us. 
Also  the  sky  begins  to  darken:  and  the  rain  falls.  I 
think  of  the  night  before  us,  on  the  sea  again.  And 
I  am  vaguely  troubled  lest  we  may  not  get  a  berth. 
However,  we  may  spend  the  night  in  Naples:  or  even 
sit  on  in  this  train,  which  goes  forward,  all  through  the 
long  long  night,  to  the  Straits  of  Messina.  We  must 
decide  as  we  near  Naples. 

Half  dozing,  one  becomes  aware  of  the  people  about 
one.  We  are  travelling  second  class.  Opposite  is  a 
little,  hold-your-own  school-mistressy  young  person 
in  pince-nez.  Next  her  a  hollow-cheeked  white  sol- 
dier with  ribbons  on  his  breast.  Then  a  fat  man  in 
a  corner.  Then  a  naval  officer  of  low  rank.  The 
naval  officer  is  coming  from  Fiume,  and  is  dead  with 
sleep  and  perhaps  mortification.  D'Annunzio  has 
just  given  up.  Two  compartments  away  we  hear  sol- 

[   319  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

diers  singing,  martial  still  though  bruised  with  fatigue, 
the  D'Annunzio-bragging  songs  of  Fiume.  They  are 
soldiers  of  the  D'Annunzio  legion.  And  one  of  them, 
I  hear  the  sick  soldier  saying,  is  very  hot  and  republican 
still.  Private  soldiers  are  not  allowed,  with  their  re- 
duced tickets,  to  travel  on  the  express  trains.  But  these 
legionaries  are  not  penniless:  they  have  paid  the  excess 
and  come  along.  For  the  moment  they  are  sent  to 
their  homes.  And  with  heads  dropping  with  fatigue, 
we  hear  them  still  definantly  singing  down  the  carriage 
for  D'Annunzio. 

A  regular  officer  went  along — a  captain  of  the  Ital- 
ian, not  the  Fiume  army.  He  heard  the  chants  and 
entered  the  carriage.  The  legionaries  were  quiet,  but 
they  lounged  and  ignored  the  entry  of  the  officer.  "On 
your  feet!"  he  yelled,  Italian  fashion.  The  vehe- 
mence did  it.  Reluctantly  as  may  be,  they  stood  up 
in  the  compartment.  "Salute!"  And  though  it  was 
bitter,  up  went  their  hands  in  the  salute,  whilst  he 
stood  and  watched  them.  And  then,  very  superb,  he 
sauntered  away  again.  They  sat  down  glowering. 
Of  course  they  were  beaten.  Didn't  they  know  it. 
The  men  in  our  carriage  smiled  curiously:  in  slow  and 
futile  mockery  of  both  parties. 

The  rain  was  falling  outside,  the  windows  were 
steamed  quite  dense,  so  that  we  were  shut  in  from  the 

[  320  ] 


BACK 

world.  Throughout  the  length  of  the  train,  which  was 
not  very  full,  could  be  felt  the  exhausted  weariness 
and  the  dispirited  dejection  of  the  poor  D'Annunzio 
legionaries.  In  the  afternoon  silence  of  the  mist- 
enclosed,  half-empty  train  the  snatches  of  song  broke 
out  again,  and  faded  in  sheer  dispirited  fatigue.  We 
ran  on  blindly  and  heavily.  But  one  young  fellow 
was  not  to  be  abashed.  He  was  well-built,  and  his 
thick  black  hair  was  brushed  up,  like  a  great  fluffy 
crest  upon  his  head.  He  came  slowly  and  unabated 
down  the  corridor,  and  on  every  big,  mist-opaque  pane 
he  scrawled  with  his  finger  W  D'ANNUNZIO 
GABRIELE— W  D'ANNUNZIO  GABRIELE. 

The  sick  soldier  laughed  thinly,  saying  to  the  school- 
mistress: "Oh  yes,  they  are  fine  chaps.  But  it  was 
folly.  D'Annunzio  is  a  world  poet — a  world  wonder 
— but  Fiume  was  a  mistake  you  know.  And  these 
chaps  have  got  to  learn  a  lesson.  They  got  beyond 
themselves.  Oh,  they  aren't  short  of  money.  D'An- 
nunzio had  wagon-loads  of  money  there  in  Fiume,  and 
he  wasn't  altogether  mean  with  it."  The  schoolmis- 
tress, who  was  one  of  the  sharp  ones,  gave  a  little 
disquisition  to  show  why  it  was  a  mistake,  and  wherein 
she  knew  better  than  the  world's  poet  and  wonder. 

It  always  makes  me  sick  to  hear  people  chewing  over 
newspaper  pulp, 

J 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

The  sick  soldier  was  not  a  legionary.  He  had  been 
wounded  through  the  lung.  But  it  was  healed,  he 
said.  He  lifted  the  flap  of  his  breast  pocket,  and  there 
hung  a  little  silver  medal.  It  was  his  wound-medal. 
He  wore  it  concealed:  and  over  the  place  of  the  wound. 
He  and  the  schoolmistress  looked  at  one  another 
significantly. 

Then  they  talked  pensions:  and  soon  were  on  the 
old  topic.  The  schoolmistress  had  her  figures  pat,  as  a 
schoolmistress  should.  Why,  the  ticket-collector,  the 
man  who  punches  one's  tickets  on  the  train,  now  had 
twelve  thousand  Lira  a  year:  twelve  thousand  Lira. 
Monstrous!  Whilst  a  fully-qualified  professore,  a 
schoolmaster  who  had  been  through  all  his  training 
and  had  all  his  degrees,  was  given  five  thousand.  Five 
thousand  for  a  fully  qualified  professore,  and  twelve 
thousand  for  a  ticket  puncher.  The  soldier  agreed, 
and  quoted  other  figures.  But  the  railway  was  the 
outstanding  grievance.  Every  boy  who  left  school 
now,  said  the  school-mistress,  wanted  to  go  on  the  rail- 
way. Oh  but — said  the  soldier — the  train-men — ! 

The  naval  officer,  who  collapsed  into  the  most  un- 
canny positions,  blind  with  sleep,  got  down  at  Capua 
to  get  into  a  little  train  that  would  carry  him  back  to 
his  own  station,  where  our  train  had  not  stopped.  At 

[  322  ] 


BACK 

Caserta  the  sick  soldier  got  out.  Down  the  great 
avenue  of  trees  the  rain  was  falling.  A  young  man 
entered.  Remained  also  the  schoolmistress  and  the 
stout  man.  Knowing  we  had  been  listening,  the 
schoolmistress  spoke  to  us  about  the  soldier.  Then — 
she  had  said  she  was  catching  the  night  boat  for 
Palermo — I  asked  her  if  she  thought  the  ship  would 
be  very  full.  Oh  yes,  very  full,  she  said.  Why, 
hers  was  one  of  the  last  cabin  numbers,  and  she  had 
got  her  ticket  early  that  morning.  The  fat  man  now 
joined  in.  He  too  was  crossing  to  Palermo.  The 
ship  was  sure  to  be  quite  full  by  now.  Were  we  de- 
pending on  booking  berths  at  the  port  of  Naples?  We 
were.  Whereupon  he  and  the  schoolmistress  shook 
their  heads  and  said  it  was  more  than  doubtful — nay, 
it  was  as  good  as  impossible.  For  the  boat  was  the 
renowned  Citta  di  Trieste,  that  floating  palace,  and 
such  was  the  fame  of  her  gorgeousness  that  everybody 
wanted  to  travel  by  her. 

"First  and  second  class  alike?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  also  first  class,"  replied  the  school-marm 
rather  spitefully.  So  I  knew  she  had  a  white  ticket — 
second. 

I  cursed  the  Citta  di  Trieste  and  her  gorgeousness, 
and  looked  down  my  nose.  We  had  now  two  alter- 
natives: to  spend  the  night  in  Naples,  or  to  sit  on  all 

[  323  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

through  the  night  and  next  morning,  and  arrive  home, 
with  heaven's  aid,  in  the  early  afternoon.  Though 
these  long-distance  trains  think  nothing  of  six  hours 
late.  But  we  were  tired  already.  What  we  should 
be  like  after  another  twenty-four  hours'  sitting,  heaven 
knows.  And  yet  to  struggle  for  a  bed  in  a  Naples 
hotel  this  night,  in  the  rain,  all  the  hotels  being  at 
present  crammed  with  foreigners,  that  was  no  rosy 
prospect.  Oh  dear! 

However,  I  was  not  going  to  take  their  discourage- 
ment so  easily.  One  has  been  had  that  way  before. 
They  love  to  make  the  case  look  desperate. 

Were  we  English?  asked  the  schoolmistress.  We 
were.  Ah,  a  fine  thing  to  be  English  in  Italy  now. 
Why? — rather  tart  from  me.  Because  of  the  cambio, 
the  exchange.  You  English,  with  your  money  ex- 
change, you  come  here  and  buy  everything  for  nothing, 
you  take  the  best  of  everything,  and  with  your  money 
you  pay  nothing  for  it.  Whereas  we  poor  Italians  we 
pay  heavily  for  everything  at  an  exaggerated  price,  and 
we  can  have  nothing.  Ah,  it  is  all  very  nice  to  be 
English  in  Italy  now.  You  can  travel,  you  go  to  the 
hotels,  you  can  see  everything  and  buy  everything,  and 
it  costs  you  nothing.  What  is  the  exchange  today? 
She  whipped  it  out.  A  hundred  and  four,  twenty. 

This  she  told  me  to  my  nose.     And  the  fat  man 

[  324  ] 


BACK 

murmured  bitterly  gid!  gid! — ay!  ay!  Her  imperti- 
nence and  the  fat  man's  quiet  bitterness  stirred  my  bile. 
Has  not  this  song  been  sung  at  me  once  too  often,  by 
these  people? 

You  are  mistaken,  said  I  to  the  schoolmistress.  We 
don't  by  any  means  live  in  Italy  for  nothing.  Even 
with  the  exchange  at  a  hundred  and  three,  we  don't  live 
for  nothing.  We  pay,  and  pay  through  the  nose,  for 
whatever  we  have  in  Italy:  and  you  Italians  see  that 
we  pay.  What!  You  put  all  the  tariff  you  do  on 
foreigners,  and  then  say  we  live  here  for  nothing.  I 
tell  you  I  could  live  in  England  just  as  well,  on  the 
same  money — perhaps  better.  Compare  the  cost  of 
things  in  England  with  the  cost  here  in  Italy,  and  even 
considering  the  exchange,  Italy  costs  nearly  as  much 
as  England.  Some  things  are  cheaper  here — the  rail- 
way comes  a  little  cheaper,  and  is  infinitely  more  mis- 
erable. Travelling  is  usually  a  misery.  But  other 
things,  clothes  of  all  sorts,  and  a  good  deal  of  food  is 
even  more  expensive  here  than  in  England,  exchange 
considered. 

Oh  yes,  she  said,  England  had  had  to  bring  her  prices 
down  this  last  fortnight.  In  her  own  interests  indeed. 

"This  last  fortnight!  This  last  six  months,"  said 
I.  "Whereas  prices  rise  every  single  day  here." 

[  325   ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Here  a  word  from  the  quiet  young  man  who  had 
got  in  at  Caserta. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "yes.  I  say,  every  nation  pays  in 
its  own  money,  no  matter  what  the  exchange.  And  it 
works  out  about  equal." 

But  I  felt  angry.  Am  I  always  to  have  the  exchange 
flung  in  my  teeth,  as  if  I  were  a  personal  thief?  But 
the  woman  persisted. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "we  Italians,  we  are  so  nice,  we  are 
so  good.  Noi,  siamo  cosi  buoni.  We  are  so  good- 
natured.  But  others,  they  are  not  buoni,  they  are 
not  good-natured  to  us."  And  she  nodded  her  head. 
And  truly,  I  did  not  feel  at  all  good-natured  towards 
her:  which  she  knew.  And  as  for  the  Italian  good- 
nature, it  forms  a  sound  and  unshakeable  basis  nowa- 
days for  their  extortion  and  self -justification  and  spite. 

Darkness  was  falling  over  the  rich  flat  plains  that 
lie  around  Naples,  over  the  tall  uncanny  vines  with 
their  brown  thongs  in  the  intensely  cultivated  black 
earth.  It  was  night  by  the  time  we  were  in  that  vast 
and  thievish  station.  About  half -past  five.  We  were 
not  very  late.  Should  we  sit  on  in  our  present  carriage, 
and  go  down  in  it  to  the  port,  along  with  the  school- 
mistress, and  risk  it?  But  first  look  at  the  coach  which 
was  going  on  to  Sicily.  So  we  got  down  and  ran  along 

[  326  ] 


BACK 

the  train  to  the  Syracuse  coach.  Hubbub,  confusion, 
a  wedge  in  the  corridor,  and  for  sure  no  room.  Cer- 
tainly no  room  to  lie  down  a  bit.  We  could  not  sit 
tight  for  twenty-four  hours  more. 

So  we  decided  to  go  to  the  port — and  to  walk. 
Heaven  knows  when  the  railway  carriage  would  be 
shunted  down.  Back  we  went  therefore  for  the  sack, 
told  the  schoolmistress  our  intention. 

"You  can  but  try,"  she  said  frostily. 

So  there  we  are,  with  the  sack  over  my  shoulder  and 
the  kitchenino  in  the  q-b's  hand,  bursting  out  of  that 
thrice-damned  and  annoying  station,  and  running 
through  the  black  wet  gulf  of  a  Naples  night,  in  a  slow 
rain.  Cabmen  look  at  us.  But  my  sack  saved  me.  I 
am  weary  of  that  boa-constrictor,  a  Naples  cabman  after 
dark.  By  day  there  is  more-or-less  a  tariff. 

It  is  about  a  mile  from  the  station  to  the  quay  where 
the  ship  lies.  We  make  our  way  through  the  deep, 
gulf -like  streets,  over  the  slippery  black  cobbles.  The 
black  houses  rise  massive  to  a  great  height  on  either 
side,  but  the  streets  are  not  in  this  part  very  narrow. 
We  plunge  forwards  in  the  unearthly  half-darkness  of 
this  great  uncontrolled  city.  There  are  no  lights  at 
all  from  the  buildings — only  the  small  electric  lamps 
of  the  streets. 

[  327  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

So  we  emerge  on  the  harbour  front,  and  hurry  past 
the  great  storehouses  in  the  rainy  night,  to  where  the 
actual  entrances  begin.  The  tram  bangs  past  us.  We 
scuffle  along  that  pavement-ridge  which  lies  like  an 
isthmus  down  the  vast  black  quicksands  of  that  harbour 
road.  One  feels  peril  all  round.  But  at  length  we 
come  to  a  gate  by  the  harbour  railway.  No,  not  that, 
On  to  the  next  iron  gate  of  the  railway  crossing.  And  so 
we  run  out  past  the  great  sheds  and  the  buildings  of  the 
port  station,  till  we  see  a  ship  rearing  in  front,  and  the 
sea  all  black.  But  now  where  is  that  little  hole  where 
one  gets  the  tickets?  We  are  at  the  back  of  everywhere 
in  this  desert  jungle  of  the  harbour  darkness. 

A  man  directs  us  round  the  corner — and  actually  does 
not  demand  money.  It  is  the  sack  again.  So — there, 
I  see  the  knot  of  men,  soldiers  chiefly,  fighting  in 
a  bare  room  round  a  tiny  wicket.  I  recognise  the  place 
where  I  have  fought  before. 

So  while  the  q-b  stands  guard  over  sack  and  bag, 
I  plunge  into  the  fray.  It  literally  is  a  fight.  Some 
thirty  men  all  at  once  want  to  get  at  a  tiny  wicket  in  a 
blank  wall.  There  are  no  queue-rails,  there  is  no  or- 
der: just  a  hole  in  a  blank  wall,  and  thirty  fellows, 
mostly  military,  pressing  at  it  in  a  mass.  But  I  have 
done  this  before.  The  way  is  to  insert  the  thin  end 

[  328  ] 


BACK 

of  oneself,  and  without  any  violence,  by  deadly 
pressure  and  pertinacity  come  at  the  goal.  One  hand 
must  be  kept  fast  over  the  money  pocket,  and  one 
must  be  free  to  clutch  the  wicket-side  when  one  gets 
there.  And  thus  one  is  ground  small  in  those  mills 
of  God,  Demos  struggling  for  tickets.  It  isn't  very 
nice — so  close,  so  incomparably  crushed.  And  never 
for  a  second  must  one  be  off  one's  guard  for  one's  watch 
and  money  and  even  hanky.  When  I  first  came  to 
Italy  after  the  war  I  was  robbed  twice  in  three  weeks, 
floating  round  in  the  sweet  old  innocent  confidence  in 
mankind.  Since  then  I  have  never  ceased  to  be  on 
my  guard.  Somehow  or  other,  waking  and  sleeping 
one's  spirit  must  be  on  its  guard  nowadays.  Which 
is  really  what  I  prefer,  now  I  have  learnt  it.  Con- 
fidence in  the  goodness  of  mankind  is  a  very  thin  pro- 
tection indeed.  Integer  vitae  scelerisque  furus  will 
do  nothing  for  you  when  it  comes  to  humanity,  however 
efficacious  it  may  be  with  lions  and  wolves.  There- 
fore, tight  on  my  guard,  like  a  screw  biting  into  a  bit 
of  wood,  I  bite  my  way  through  that  knot  of  fellows, 
to  the  wicket,  and  shout  for  two  first-class.  The  clerk 
inside  ignores  me  for  some  time,  serving  soldiers.  But 
if  you  stand  like  Doomsday  you  get  your  way.  Two 
firsts,  says  the  clerk.  Husband  and  wife,  say  I,  in 
case  there  is  a  two-berth  cabin.  Jokes  behind.  But 

[  329  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA^ 

I  get  my  tickets.  Impossible  to  put  my  hand  to  my 
pocket.  The  tickets  cost  about  a  hundred  and  five 
francs  each.  Clutching  paper  change  and  the  green 
slips,  with  a  last  gasp  I  get  out  of  the  knot.  So — we've 
done  it.  As  I  sort  my  money  and  stow  away,  I  hear 
another  ask  for  one  first-class.  Nothing  left,  says  the 
clerk.  So  you  see  how  one  must  fight. 

I  must  say  for  these  dense  and  struggling  crowds, 
they  are  only  intense,  not  violent,  and  not  in  the  least 
brutal.  I  always  feel  a  certain  sympathy  with  the 
men  in  them. 

Bolt  through  the  pouring  rain  to  the  ship.  And  in 
two  minutes  we  are  aboard.  And  behold,  each  of  us 
has  a  deck  cabin,  I  one  to  myself,  the  q-b  to  herself 
next  door.  Palatial — not  a  cabin  at  all,  but  a  proper 
little  bedroom  with  a  curtained  bed  under  the  port- 
hole windows,  a  comfortable  sofa,  chairs,  table,  carpets, 
big  wash-bowls  with  silver  taps — a  whole  de  luxe.  I 
dropped  the  sack  on  the  sofa  with  a  gasp,  drew  back 
the  yellow  curtains  of  the  bed,  looked  out  of  the  port- 
hole at  the  lights  of  Naples,  and  sighed  with  relief. 
One  could  wash  thoroughly,  refreshingly,  and  change 
one's  linen.  Wonderful! 

The  state-room  is  like  an  hotel  lounge,  many  little 
[  330  ] 


BACK 

tables  with  flowers  and  periodicals,  arm-chairs,  warm 
carpet,  bright  but  soft  lights,  and  people  sitting  about 
chatting.  A  loud  group  of  English  people  in  one 
corner,  very  assured:  two  quiet  English  ladies:  various 
Italians  seeming  quite  modest.  Here  one  could  sit 
in  peace  and  rest,  pretending  to  look  at  an  illustrated 
magazine.  So  we  rested.  After  about  an  hour  there 
entered  a  young  Englishman  and  his  wife,  whom  we 
had  seen  on  our  train.  So,  at  last  the  coach  had  been 
shunted  down  to  the  port.  Where  should  we  have 
been  had  we  waited! 

The  waiters  began  to  flap  the  white  table-cloths  and 
spread  the  tables  nearest  the  walls.  Dinner  would 
begin  at  half-past  seven,  immediately  the  boat  started. 
We  sat  in  silence,  till  eight  or  nine  tables  were  spread. 
Then  we  let  the  other  people  take  their  choice.  After 
which  we  chose  a  table  by  ourselves,  neither  of  us  want- 
ing company.  So  we  sat  before  the  plates  and  the 
wine-bottles  and  sighed  in  the  hopes  of  a  decent  meal. 
Food  by  the  way  is  not  included  in  the  hundred-and- 
five  francs. 

Alas,  we  were  not  to  be  alone:  two  young  Neapoli- 
tans, pleasant,  quiet,  blond,  or  semi-blond.  They  were 
well-bred,  and  evidently  of  northern  extraction.  Af- 
terwards we  found  out  they  were  jewellers.  But  I 

[  331  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

liked  their  quiet,  gentle  manners.  The  dinner  began, 
and  we  were  through  the  soup,  when  up  pranced  an- 
other young  fellow,  rather  strapping  and  loud,  a  com- 
mercial traveller,  for  sure.  He  had  those  cocky  as- 
sured manners  of  one  who  is  not  sure  of  his  manners. 
He  had  a  rather  high  forehead,  and  black  hair  brushed 
up  in  a  showy  wing,  and  a  large  ring  on  his  finger. 
Not  that  a  ring  signifies  anything.  Here  most  of  the 
men  wear  several,  all  massively  jewelled.  If  one  be- 
lieved in  all  the  jewels,  why  Italy  would  be  more 
fabulous  than  fabled  India.  But  our  friend  the 
bounder  was  smart,  and  smelled  of  cash.  Not  money, 
but  cash. 

I  had  an  inkling  of  what  to  expect  when  he  handed 
the  salt  and  said  in  English  "Salt,  thenk  you."  But 
I  ignored  the  advance.  However,  he  did  not  wait 
long.  Through  the  windows  across  the  room  the  q-b 
saw  the  lights  of  the  harbour  slowly  moving.  "Oh," 
she  cried,  "are  we  going?"  And  also  in  Italian: 
"Partiamo?"  All  watched  the  lights,  the  bounder 
screwing  round.  He  had  one  of  the  fine,  bounderish 
backs. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "We— going" 

"Oh,"  cried  she.     "Do  you  speak  English? " 

"Ye-es.     Some  English — I  speak." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  spoke  about  forty  disconnected 
[  332  ] 


BACK 

words.  But  his  accent  was  so  good  for  these  forty. 
He  did  not  speak  English,  he  imitated  an  English 
voice  making  sounds.  And  the  effect  was  startling. 
He  had  served  on  the  Italian  front  with  the  Scots 
Guards — so  he  told  us  in  Italian.  He  was  Milanese. 
Oh,  he  had  had  a  time  with  the  Scots  Guards. 
Wheesky — eh?  Wheesky. 

"Come  along  bhoys!"  he  shouted. 

And  it  was  such  a  Scotch  voice  shouting,  so  loud- 
mouthed and  actual,  I  nearly  went  under  the  table. 
It  struck  us  both  like  a  blow. 

Afterwards  he  rattled  away  without  misgiving.  He 
was  a  traveller  for  a  certain  type  of  machine,  and  was 
doing  Sicily.  Shortly  he  was  going  to  England — and 
he  asked  largely  about  first-class  hotels.  Then  he 
asked  was  the  q-b  French? — Was  she  Italian? — No, 
she  was  German.  Ah — German.  And  immediately 
out  he  came  with  the  German  word:  "Deutsch! 
Deutsch,  eh?  From  Deutschland.  Oh  yes! 
Deutschland  iiber  alles!  Ah,  I  know.  No  more — 
what?  Deutschland  unter  alles  now?  Deutschland 
unter  alles."  And  he  bounced  on  his  seat  with  gratifi- 
cation of  the  words.  Of  German  as  of  English  he 
knew  half  a  dozen  phrases. 

"No,"  said  the  q-b,  "Not  Deutschland  unter  alles. 
Not  for  long,  anyhow." 

[  333  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

"How?  Not  for  long?  You  think  so?  I  think 
so  too,"  said  the  bounder.  Then  in  Italian:  "La  Ger- 
mania  won't  stand  under  all  for  long.  No,  no.  At 
present  it  is  England  iiber  alles.  England  uber  dies. 
But  Germany  will  rise  up  again." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  q-b.     "How  shouldn't  she?" 

"Ah,"  said  the  bounder,  "while  England  keeps  the 
money  in  her  pocket,  we  shall  none  of  us  rise  up.  Italy 
won  the  war,  and  Germany  lost  it.  And  Italy  and 
Germany  they  both  are  down,  and  England  is  up. 
They  both  are  down,  and  England  is  up.  Eng- 
land and  France.  Strange,  isn't  it?  Ah,  the  al- 
lies. What  are  the  allies  for?  To  keep  England  up, 
and  France  half  way,  and  Germany  and  Italy  down." 

"Ah,  they  won't  stay  down  for  ever,"  said  the  q-b. 

"You  think  not?  Ah!  We  will  see.  We  will  see 
how  England  goes  on  now." 

"England  is  not  going  on  so  marvellously,  after  all," 
say  I. 

"How  not?     You  mean  Ireland?" 

"No,  not  only  Ireland.  Industry  altogether.  Eng- 
land is  as  near  to  ruin  as  other  countries." 

"Ma!  With  all  the  money,  and  we  others  with  no 
money?  How  will  she  be  ruined?" 

"And  what  good  would  it  be  to  you  if  she  were?" 

"Oh  well — who  knows.  If  England  were  ruined — " 
[  334  ]  ' 


BACK 

a  slow  smile  of  anticipation  spread  over  his  face.  How 
he  would  love  it — how  they  would  all  love  it,  if  Eng- 
land were  ruined.  That  is,  the  business  part  of  them, 
perhaps,  would  not  love  it.  But  the  human  part 
would.  The  human  part  fairly  licks  its  lips  at  the 
thought  of  England's  ruin.  The  commercial  part, 
however,  quite  violently  disclaims  the  anticipations  of 
the  human  part.  And  there  it  is.  The  newspapers 
chiefly  speak  with  the  commercial  voice.  But  indi- 
vidually, when  you  are  got  at  in  a  railway  carriage  or 
as  now  on  a  ship,  up  speaks  the  human  voice,  and  you 
know  how  they  love  you.  This  is  no  doubt  inevitable. 
When  the  exchange  stands  at  a  hundred  and  six  men 
go  humanly  blind,  I  suppose,  however  much  they  may 
keep  the  commercial  eye  open.  And  having  gone 
humanly  blind  they  bump  into  one's  human  self  nastily: 
a  nasty  jar.  You  know  then  how  they  hate  you. 
Underneath,  they  hate  us,  and  as  human  beings  we  are 
objects  of  envy  and  malice.  They  hate  us,  with  envy, 
and  despise  us,  with  jealousy.  Which  perhaps  doesn't 
hurt  commercially.  Humanly  it  is  to  me  unpleasant. 
The  dinner  was  over,  and  the  bounder  was  lavishing 
cigarettes — Murattis,  if  you  please.  We  had  all  drunk 
two  bottles  of  wine.  Two  other  commercial  travellers 
had  joined  the  bounder  at  our  table — two  smart  young 
fellows,  one  a  bounder  and  one  gentle  and  nice.  Our 

[  335  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

two  jewellers  remained  quiet,  talking  their  share,  but 
quietly  and  so  sensitively.  One  could  not  help  liking 
them.  So  we  were  seven  people,  six  men. 

"Wheesky!  Will  you  drink  Wheesky,  Mister?" 
said  our  original  bounder.  "Yes,  one  small  Scotch! 
One  Scotch  Wheesky."  All  this  in  a  perfect  Scotty 
voice  of  a  man  standing  at  a  bar  calling  for  a  drink.  It 
was  comical,  one  could  not  but  laugh :  and  very  imperti- 
nent. He  called  for  the  waiter,  took  him  by  the  but- 
ton-hole, and  with  a  breast-to-breast  intimacy  asked  if 
there  was  whisky.  The  waiter,  with  the  same  tone  of 
you-and-I-are-men-who-have-the-same-feelings,  said 
he  didn't  think  there  was  whisky,  but  he  would  look. 
Our  bounder  went  round  the  table  inviting  us  all  to 
whiskies,  and  pressing  on  us  his  expensive  English 
cigarettes  with  great  aplomb. 

The  whisky  came — and  five  persons  partook.  It 
was  fiery,  oily  stuff  from  heaven  knows  where.  The 
bounder  rattled  away,  spouting  his  bits  of  English  and 
his  four  words  of  German.  He  was  in  high  feather, 
wriggling  his  large  haunches  on  his  chair  and  waving 
his  hands.  He  had  a  peculiar  manner  of  wriggling 
from  the  bottom  of  his  back,  with  fussy  self-assertive- 
ness.  It  was  my  turn  to  offer  whisky. 

I  was  able  in  a  moment's  lull  to  peer  through  the 
windows  and  see  the  dim  lights  of  Capri — the  glimmer 

[  336  ] 


BACK 

of  Anacapri  up  on  the  black  shadow — the  lighthouse. 
We  had  passed  the  island.  In  the  midst  of  the  babel 
I  sent  out  a  few  thoughts  to  a  few  people  on  the  island. 
Then  I  had  to  come  back. 

The  bounder  had  once  more  resumed  his  theme  of 
PInghilterra,  PItalia,  la  Germania.  He  swanked 
England  as  hard  as  he  could.  Of  course  England  was 
the  top  dog,  and  if  he  could  speak  some  English,  if  he 
were  talking  to  English  people,  and  if,  as  he  said,  he 
was  going  to  England  in  April,  why  he  was  so  much 
the  more  top-doggy  than  his  companions,  who  could 
not  rise  to  all  these  heights.  At  the  same  time,  my 
nerves  had  too  much  to  bear. 

Where  were  we  going  and  where  had  we  been  and 
where  did  we  live?  And  ah,  yes,  English  people  lived 
in  Italy.  Thousands,  thousands  of  English  people 
lived  in  Italy.  Yes,  it  was  very  nice  for  them.  There 
used  to  be  many  Germans,  but  now  the  Germans  were 
down.  But  the  English — what  could  be  better  for 
them  than  Italy  now:  they  had  sun,  they  had  warmth, 
they  had  abundance  of  everything,  they  had  a  charming 
people  to  deal  with,  and  they  had  the  cambio!  Ecco! 
The  other  commercial  travellers  agreed.  They  ap- 
pealed to  the  q-b  if  it  was  not  so.  And  altogether  I 
had  enough  of  it. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  I,  "it's  very  nice  to  be  in  Italy: 

[  337  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

especially  if  you  are  not  living  in  an  hotel,  and  you 
have  to  attend  to  things  for  yourself.  It  is  very  nice 
to  be  overcharged  every  time,  and  then  insulted  if  you 
say  a  word.  It's  very  nice  to  have  the  cambw  thrown 
in  your  teeth,  if  you  say  two  words  to  any  Italian,  even 
a  perfect  stranger.  It's  very  nice  to  have  waiters  and 
shop-people  and  railway  porters  sneering  in  a  bad 
temper  and  being  insulting  in  small,  mean  ways  all  the 
time.  It's  very  nice  to  feel  what  they  all  feel  against 
you.  And  if  you  understand  enough  Italian,  it's  very 
nice  to  hear  what  they  say  when  you've  gone  by.  Oh 
very  nice.  Very  nice  indeed! " 

I  suppose  the  whisky  had  kindled  this  outburst  in 
me.  They  sat  dead  silent.  And  then  our  bounder  be- 
gan, in  his  sugary  deprecating  voice. 

"Why  no!  Why  no!  It  is  not  true,  signore.  No, 
it  is  not  true.  Why,  England  is  the  foremost  nation 
in  the  world — " 

"And  you  want  to  pay  her  out  for  it." 

"But  no,  signore.  But  no.  What  makes  you  say  so? 
Why,  we  Italians  are  so  goodnatured.  Noi  Italiani 
siamo  cosi  buoni.  Siamo  cosi  buoni." 

It  was  the  identical  words  of  the  schoolmistress. 

"Buoni,"  said  I.  "Yes — perhaps.  Buoni  when  it's 
not  a  question  of  the  exchange  and  of  money.  But 

[  338  ] 


BACK 

since  it  is  always  a  question  of  cambio  and  soldi,  now, 
one  is  always,  in  a  small  way,  insulted." 

I  suppose  it  must  have  been  the  whisky.  Anyhow 
Italians  can  never  bear  hard  bitterness.  The  jewellers 
looked  distressed,  the  bounders  looked  down  their 
noses,  half  exulting  even  now,  and  half  sheepish,  being 
caught.  The  third  of  the  commis  voyageurs,  the  gen- 
tle one,  made  large  eyes  and  was  terrified  that  he  was 
going  to  be  sick.  He  represented  a  certain  Italian 
liqueur,  and  he  modestly  asked  us  to  take  a  glass  of  it. 
He  went  with  the  waiter  to  secure  the  proper  brand. 
So  we  drank — and  it  was  good.  But  he,  the  giver,  sat 
with  large  and  haunted  eyes.  Then  he  said  he  would 
go  to  bed.  Our  bounder  gave  him  various  advice  re- 
garding seasickness.  There  was  a  mild  swell  on  the 
sea.  So  he  of  the  liqueur  departed. 

Our  bounder  thrummed  on  the  table  and  hummed 
something,  and  asked  the  q-b  if  she  knew  the  Rosen- 
cavalier.  He  always  appealed  to  her.  She  said  she 
did.  And  ah,  he  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  said 
he.  Then  he  warbled,  in  a  head  voice,  a  bit  more. 
He  only  knew  classical  music,  said  he.  And  he  mewed 
a  bit  of  Moussorgsky.  The  q-b  said  Moussorgsky  was 
her  favourite  musician,  for  opera.  Ah,  cried  the 
bounder,  if  there  were  but  a  piano! — There  is  a  piano, 

[  339  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

said  his  mate. — Yes,  he  replied,  but  it  is  locked  up. — 
Then  let  us  get  the  key,  said  his  mate,  with  aplomb. 
The  waiters,  being  men  with  the  same  feelings  as  our 
two,  would  give  them  anything.  So  the  key  was  forth- 
coming. We  paid  our  bills — mine  about  sixty  francs. 
Then  we  went  along  the  faintly  rolling  ship,  up  the 
curved  staircase  to  the  drawing  room.  Our  bounder 
unlocked  the  door  of  this  drawing  room,  and  switched 
on  the  lights. 

It  was  quite  a  pleasant  room,  with  deep  divans  up- 
holstered in  pale  colours,  and  palm-trees  standing 
behind  little  tables,  and  a  black  upright  piano.  Our 
bounder  sat  on  the  piano-stool  and  gave  us  an  exhibi- 
tion. He  splashed  out  noise  on  the  piano  in  splashes, 
like  water  splashing  out  of  a  pail.  He  lifted  his  head 
and  shook  his  black  mop  of  hair,  and  yelled  out  some 
fragments  of  opera.  And  he  wriggled  his  large, 
bounder's  back  upon  the  piano  stool,  wriggling  upon  his 
well-filled  haunches.  Evidently  he  had  a  great  deal 
of  feeling  for  music:  but  very  little  prowess.  He 
yelped  it  out,  and  wriggled,  and  splashed  the  piano. 
His  friend  the  other  bounder,  a  quiet  one  in  a  pale  suit, 
with  stout  limbs,  older  than  the  wriggler,  stood  by  the 
piano  whilst  the  young  one  exhibited.  Across  the 
space  of  carpet  sat  the  two  brother  jewellers,  deep  in 
a  divan,  their  lean,  semi-blond  faces  quite  inscrutable. 

[  340  ] 


BACK 

The  q-b  sat  next  to  me,  asking  for  this  and  that  music, 
none  of  which  the  wriggler  could  supply.  He  knew 
four  scraps,  and  a  few  splashes — not  more.  The  elder 
bounder  stood  near  him  quietly  comforting,  encourag- 
ing, and  admiring  him,  as  a  lover  encouraging  and  ad- 
miring his  ingenue  betrothed.  And  the  q-b  sat  bright- 
eyed  and  excited,  admiring  that  a  man  could  perform 
so  unself -consciously  self-conscious,  and  give  himself 
away  with  such  generous  wriggles.  For  my  part,  as 
you  may  guess,  I  did  not  admire. 

I  had  had  enough.  Rising,  I  bowed  and  marched 
off.  The  q-b  came  after  me.  Goodnight,  said  I,  at 
the  head  of  the  corridor.  She  turned  in,  and  I  went 
round  the  ship  to  look  at  the  dark  night  of  the  sea. 

Morning  came  sunny  with  pieces  of  cloud:  and  the 
Sicilian  coast  towering  pale  blue  in  the  distance.  How 
wonderful  it  must  have  been  to  Ulysses  to  venture  into 
this  Mediterranean  and  open  his  eyes  on  all  the  love- 
liness of  the  tall  coasts.  How  marvellous  to  steal  with 
his  ship  into  these  magic  harbours.  There  is  something 
eternally  morning-glamourous  about  these  lands  as  they 
rise  from  the  sea.  And  it  is  always  the  Odyssey  which 
comes  back  to  one  as  one  looks  at  them.  All  the  lovely 
morning- wonder  of  this  world,  in  Homer's  day! 

[  341  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

Our  bounder  was  dashing  about  on  deck,  in  one  of 
those  rain-coats  gathered  in  at  the  waist  and  ballooning 
out  into  skirts  below  the  waist.  He  greeted  me  with 
a  cry  of  "It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary."  "Very 
long,"  said  I.  "Goodbye  Piccadilly — "  he  continued. 
"Ciau,"  said  I,  as  he  dashed  jauntily  down  the  steps. 
Soon  we  saw  the  others  as  well.  But  it  was  morning, 
and  I  simply  did  not  want  to  speak  to  them — except 
just  Good-day.  For  my  life  I  couldn't  say  two  more 
words  to  any  of  them  this  morning:  except  to  ask  the 
mild  one  if  he  had  been  sick.  He  had  not. 

So  we  waited  for  the  great  Citta  di  Trieste  to  float 
her  way  into  Palermo  harbour.  It  looked  so  near — 
the  town  there,  the  great  circle  of  the  port,  the  mass 
of  the  hills  crowding  round.  Panormus,  the  All-har- 
bour. I  wished  the  bulky  steamer  would  hurry  up. 
For  I  hated  her  now.  I  hated  her  swankiness,  she 
seemed  made  for  commercial  travellers  with  cash.  I 
hated  the  big  picture  that  filled  one  end  of  the  state- 
room: an  elegant  and  ideal  peasant-girl,  a  sort  of  Italia, 
strolling  on  a  lovely  and  ideal  cliff's '  edge,  among 
myriad  blooms,  and  carrying  over  her  arm,  in  a  most 
sophisticated  fashion,  a  bough  of  almond  blossom  and 
a  sheaf  of  anemones.  I  hated  the  waiters,  and  the 
cheap  elegance,  the  common  de  luxe.  I  disliked  the 
people,  who  all  turned  their  worst,  cash-greasy  sides 

[  342  ] 


BACK 

outwards  on  this  ship.  Vulgar,  vulgar  post-war  com- 
mercialism and  dog-fish  money-stink.  I  longed  to  get 
off.  And  the  bloated  boat  edged  her  way  so  slowly 
into  the  port,  and  then  more  slowly  still  edged  round 
her  fat  stern.  And  even  then  we  were  kept  for  fifteen 
minutes  waiting  for  someone  to  put  up  the  gangway 
for  the  first  class.  The  second  class,  of  course,  were 
streaming  off  and  melting  like  thawed  snow  into  the 
crowds  of  onlookers  on  the  quay,  long  before  we  were 
allowed  to  come  off. 

Glad,  glad  I  was  to  get  off  that  ship:  I  don't  know 
why,  for  she  was  clean  and  comfortable  and  the  attend- 
ants were  perfectly  civil.  Glad,  glad  I  was  not  to 
share  the  deck  with  any  more  commercial  travellers. 
Glad  I  was  to  be  on  my  own  feet,  independent.  No, 
I  would  not  take  a  carriage.  I  carried  my  sack  on  my 
back  to  the  hotel,  looking  with  a  jaundiced  eye  on  the 
lethargic  traffic  of  the  harbour  front.  It  was  about 
nine  o'clock. 

Later  on,  when  I  had  slept,  I  thought  as  I  have 
thought  before,  the  Italians  are  not  to  blame  for  their 
spite  against  us.  We,  England,  have  taken  upon  our- 
selves for  so  long  the  role  of  leading  nation.  And  if 
now,  in  the  war  or  after  the  war,  we  have  led  them 

[  343  1 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

all  into  a  real  old  swinery — which  we  have,  notwith- 
standing all  Entente  cant — then  they  have  a  legitimate 
grudge  against  us.  If  you  take  upon  yourself  to  lead, 
you  must  expect  the  mud  to  be  thrown  at  you  if  you 
lead  into  a  nasty  morass.  Especially  if,  once  in  the 
bog,  you  think  of  nothing  else  but  scrambling  out  over 
other  poor  devils'  backs.  Pretty  behaviour  of  great 
nations ! 

And  still,  for  all  that,  I  must  insist  that  I  am  a 
single  human  being,  an  individual,  not  a  mere  national 
unit,  a  mere  chip  of  PInghilterra  or  la  Germania.  I 
am  not  a  chip  of  any  nasty  old  block.  I  am  myself. 

In  the  evening  the  q-b  insisted  on  going  to  the  mar- 
ionettes, for  which  she  has  a  sentimental  passion.  So 
the  three  of  us — we  were  with  the  American  friend 
once  more — chased  through  dark  and  tortuous  side- 
streets  and  markets  of  Palermo  in  the  night,  until  at 
last  a  friendly  man  led  us  to  the  place.  The  back 
streets  of  Palermo  felt  friendly,  not  huge  and  rather 
horrible,  like  Naples  near  the  port. 

The  theatre  was  a  little  hole  opening  simply  off  the 
street.  There  was  no  one  in  the  little  ticket  box,  so 
we  walked  past  the  door-screen.  A  shabby  old  man 
with  a  long  fennel-stalk  hurried  up  and  made  us  places 
on  the  back  benches,  and  hushed  us  when  we  spoke  of 

[  344  ] 


BACK 

tickets.  The  play  was  in  progress.  A  serpent-dragon 
was  just  having  a  tussle  with  a  knight  in  brilliant  brass 
armour,  and  my  heart  came  into  my  mouth.  The  au- 
dience consisted  mostly  of  boys,  gazing  with  frantic 
interest  on  the  bright  stage.  There  was  a  sprinkling 
of  soldiers  and  elderly  men.  The  place  was  packed — 
about  fifty  souls  crowded  on  narrow  little  ribbons  of 
benches,  so  close  one  behind  the  other  that  the  end  of 
the  man  in  front  of  me  continually  encroached  and  sat 
on  my  knee.  I  saw  on  a  notice  that  the  price  of  entry 
was  forty  centimes. 

We  had  come  in  towards  the  end  of  the  performance, 
and  so  sat  rather  bewildered,  unable  to  follow.  The 
story  was  the  inevitable  Paladins  of  France — one  heard 
the  names  Rinaldo!  Orlando!  again  and  again.  But 
the  story  was  told  in  dialect,  hard  to  follow. 

I  was  charmed  by  the  figures.  The  scene  was  very 
simple,  showing  the  interior  of  a  castle.  But  the  fig- 
ures, which  were  about  two-thirds  of  human  size,  were 
wonderful  in  their  brilliant,  glittering  gold  armour, 
and  their  martial  prancing  motions.  All  were  knights 
— even  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  Babylon.  She  was 
distinguished  only  by  her  long  hair.  All  were  in  the 
beautiful,  glittering  armour,  with  helmets  and  visors 
that  could  be  let  down  at  will.  I  am  told  this  armour 
has  been  handed  down  for  many  generations.  It  cer- 

[  345  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

tainly  is  lovely.  One  actor  alone  was  not  in  armour, 
the  wizard  Magicce,  or  Malvigge,  the  Merlin  of  the 
Paladins.  He  was  in  a  long  scarlet  robe,  edged  with 
fur,  and  wore  a  three-cornered  scarlet  hat. 

So  we  watched  the  dragon  leap  and  twist  and  get 
the  knight  by  the  leg:  and  then  perish.  We  watched 
the  knights  burst  into  the  castle.  We  watched  the 
wonderful  armour-clashing  embraces  of  the  delivered 
knights,  Orlando  and  his  bosom  friend  and  the  little 
dwarf,  clashing  their  armoured  breasts  to  the  breasts 
of  their  brothers  and  deliverers.  We  watched  the 
would-be  tears  flow. — And  then  the  statue  of  the  witch 
suddenly  go  up  in  flames^  at  which  a  roar  of  exultation 
from  the  boys.  Then  it  was  over.  The  theatre  was 
empty  in  a  moment,  but  the  proprietors  and  the  two 
men  who  sat  near  us  would  not  let  us  go.  We  must 
wait  for  the  next  performance. 

My  neighbour,  a  fat,  jolly  man,  told  me  all  about 
it.  His  neighbour,  a  handsome  tipsy  man,  kept  con- 
tradicting and  saying  it  wasn't  so.  But  my  fat  neigh- 
bour winked  at  me,  not  to  take  offence. 

This  story  of  the  Paladins  of  France  lasted  three 
nights.  We  had  come  on  the  middle  night — of  course. 
But  no  matter — each  night  was  a  complete  story.  I  am 
sorry  I  have  forgotten  the  names  of  the  knights.  But 
the  story  was,  that  Orlando  and  his  friend  and  the 

[  346 ) 


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little  dwarf,  owing  to  the  tricks  of  that  same  dwarf, 
who  belonged  to  the  Paladins,  had  been  captured  and 
immured  in  the  enchanted  castle  of  the  ghastly  old 
witch  who  lived  on  the  blood  of  Christians.  It  was 
now  the  business  of  Rinaldo  and  the  rest  of  the 
Paladins,  by  the  help  of  Magicce  the  good  wizard,  to 
release  their  captured  brethren  from  the  ghoulish  old 
witch. 

So  much  I  made  out  of  the  fat  man's  story,  while 
the  theatre  was  filling.  He  knew  every  detail  of  the 
whole  Paladin  cycle.  And  it  is  evident  the  Paladin 
cycle  has  lots  of  versions.  For  the  handsome  tipsy 
neighbour  kept  saying  he  was  wrong,  he  was  wrong, 
and  giving  different  stories,  and  shouting  for  a  jury  to 
come  and  say  who  was  right,  he  or  my  fat  friend.  A 
jury  gathered,  and  a  storm  began  to  rise.  But  the 
stout  proprietor  with  a  fennel-wand  came  and  quenched 
the  noise,  telling  the  handsome  tipsy  man  he  knew  too 
much  and  wasn't  asked.  Whereupon  the  tipsy  one 
sulked. 

Ah,  said  my  friend,  couldn't  I  come  on  Friday.  Fri- 
day was  a  great  night.  On  Friday  they  were  giving 
I  Beati  Paoli:  The  Blessed  Pauls.  He  pointed  to  the 
walls  where  were  the  placards  announcing  The  Blessed 
Pauls.  These  Pauls  were  evidently  some  awful  secret 

with  masking  hoods  and  dagger?  and  awful 
I  347  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

eyes  looking  through  the  holes.  I  said  were  they 
assassins  like  the  Black  Hand.  By  no  means,  by  no 
means.  The  Blessed  Pauls  were  a  society  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  poor.  Their  business  was  to  track  down 
and  murder  the  oppressive  rich.  Ah,  they  were  a  won- 
derful, a  splendid  society.  Were  they,  said  I,  a  sort  of 
camorra?  Ah,  on  the  contrary — here  he  lapsed  into 
a  tense  voice — they  hated  the  camorra.  These,  the 
Blest  Pauls,  were  the  powerful  and  terrible  enemy  of 
the  grand  camorra.  For  the  Grand  Camorra  op- 
presses the  poor.  And  therefore  the  Pauls  track  down 
in  secret  the  leaders  of  the  Grand  Camorra,  and  assas- 
sinate them,  or  bring  them  to  the  fearful  hooded 
tribunal  which  utters  the  dread  verdict  of  the  Beati 
Paoli.  And  when  once  the  Beati  Paoli  have  decreed 
a  man's  death — all  over.  Ah  bellissimo,  bellissimo! 
Why  don't  I  come  on  Friday? 

It  seems  to  me  a  queer  moral  for  the  urchins  thick- 
packed  and  gazing  at  the  drop  scene.  They  are  all 
males :  urchins  or  men.  I  ask  my  fat  friend  why  there 
are  no  women — no  girls.  Ah,  he  says,  the  theatre  is 
so  small.  But,  I  say,  if  there  is  room  for  all  the  boys 
and  men,  there  is  the  same  room  for  girls  and  women. 
Oh  no — not  in  this  small  theatre.  Besides  this  is 
nothing  for  women.  Not  that  there  is  anything  im- 
proper, he  hastens  to  add.  Not  at  all.  .  But  what 

[  348 1 


BACK 

should  women  and  girls  be  doing  at  the  marionette 
show?     It  was  an  affair  for  males. 

I  agreed  with  him  really,  and  was  thankful  we  hadn't 
a  lot  of  smirking  twitching  girls  and  lasses  in  the  au- 
dience. This  male  audience  was  so  tense  and  pure  in 
its  attention. 

But  hist !  the  play  is  going  to  begin.  A  lad  is  grind- 
ing a  broken  street-piano  under  the  stage.  The 
padrone  yells  Silenzio!  with  a  roar,  and  reaching  over, 
pokes  obstreperous  boys  with  his  long  fennel-stalk,  like 
a  beadle  in  church.  When  the  curtain  rises  the  piano 
stops,  and  there  is  dead  silence.  On  swings  a  knight, 
glittering,  marching  with  that  curious  hippety  lilt,  and 
gazing  round  with  fixed  and  martial  eyes.  He  begins 
the  prologue,  telling  us  where  we  are.  And  dramati- 
cally he  waves  his  sword  and  stamps  his  foot,  and  won- 
derfully sounds  his  male,  martial,  rather  husky  voice. 
Then  the  Paladins,  his  companions  who  are  to  accom- 
pany him,  swing  one  by  one  onto  the  stage,  till  they  are 
five  in  all,  handsome  knights,  including  the  Babylonian 
Princess  and  the  Knight  of  Britain.  They  stand  in  a 
handsome,  glittering  line.  And  then  comes  Merlin  in 
his  red  robe.  Merlin  has  a  bright,  fair,  rather  chubby 
face  and  blue  eyes,  and  seems  to  typify  the  northern 
intelligence.  He  now  tells  them,  in  many  words,  how 
to  proceed  and  what  is  to  be  done. 

[  349  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

So  then,  the  glittering  knights  are  ready.  Are  they 
ready?  Rinaldo  flourishes  his  sword  with  the  wonder- 
ful cry  "Andiamo!"  let  us  go — and  the  others  respond: 
"Andiamo".  Splendid  word. 

The  first  enemy  were  the  knights  of  Spain,  in  red 
kirtles  and  half  turbans.  With  these  a  terrible  fight. 
First  of  all  rushes  in  the  Knight  of  Britain.  He  is  the 
boaster,  who  always  in  words,  does  everything.  But 
in  fact,  poor  knight  of  Britain,  he  falls  lamed.  The 
four  Paladins  have  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder,  glitter- 
ing, watching  the  fray.  Forth  now  steps  another 
knight,  and  the  fight  recommences.  Terrible  is  the 
smacking  of  swords,  terrible  the  gasps  from  behind  the 
dropped  visors.  Till  at  last  the  knight  of  Spain  falls 
— and  the  Paladin  stands  with  his  foot  on  the  dead. 
Then  loud  acclamations  from  the  Paladins,  and  yells 
of  joy  from  the  audience. 

"Silenzio!"  yells  the  padrone,  flourishing  the  fennel- 
stalk. 

Dead  silence,  and  the  story  goes  on.  The  Knight 
of  Britain  of  course  claims  to  have  slain  the  foe:  and 
the  audience  faintly,  jeeringly  hisses.  "He's  always 
the  boaster,  and  he  never  does  anything,  the  Knight 
of  Britain,"  whispers  my  fat  friend.  He  has  forgotten 
my  nationality.  I  wonder  if  the  Knight  of  Britain  is 

[  350  ] 


BACK 

pure  tradition,  or  if  a  political  touch  of  today  has 
crept  in. 

However,  this  fray  is  over — Merlin  conies  to  advise 
for  the  next  move.  And  are  we  ready?  We  are 
ready.  Andiamo!  Again  the  word  is  yelled  out,  and 
they  set  off.  At  first  one  is  all  engaged  watching  the 
figures:  their  brilliance,  their  blank,  martial  stare,  their 
sudden,  angular,  gestures.  There  is  something  ex- 
tremely suggestive  in  them.  How  much  better  they 
fit  the  old  legend-tales  than  living  people  would  do. 
Nay,  if  we  are  going  to  have  human  beings  on  the  stage, 
they  should  be  masked  and  disguised.  For  in  fact 
drama  is  enacted  by  symbolic  creatures  formed  out  of 
human  consciousness:  puppets  if  you  like:  but  not 
human  individuals.  Our  stage  is  all  wrong,  so  boring 
in  its  personality. 

Gradually,  however,  I  found  that  my  eyes  were  of 
minor  importance.  Gradually  it  was  the  voice  that 
gained  hold  of  the  blood.  It  is  a  strong,  rather  husky, 
male  voice  that  acts  direct  on  the  blood,  not  on  the 
mind.  Again  the  old  male  Adam  began  to  stir  at  the 
roots  of  my  soul.  Again  the  old,  first-hand  indiffer- 
ence, the  rich,  untamed  male  blood  rocked  down  my 
veins.  What  does  one  care?  What  does  one  care 
for  precept  and  mental  dictation?  Is  there  not  the 
massive,  brilliant,  out-flinging  recklessness  in  the  male 

[  351  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

soul,  summed  up  in  the  sudden  word:  Andiamo! 
Andiamo!  Let  us  go  on.  Andiamo! — let  us  go  hell 
knows  where,  but  let  us  go  on.  The  splendid  reck- 
lessness and  passion  that  knows  no  precept  and  no 
school-teacher,  whose  very  molten  spontaneity  is  its 
own  guide. 

I  loved  the  voices  of  the  Paladins — Rinaldo's  voice, 
and  Orlando's  voice:  the  voice  of  men  once  more,  men 
who  are  not  to  be  tutored.  To  be  sure  there  was  Mer- 
lin making  his  long  speeches  in  rather  a  chuntering, 
prosy  tone.  But  who  was  he?  Was  he  a  Paladin  and 
a  splendour?  Not  he.  A  long-gowned  chunterer. 
It  is  the  reckless  blood  which  achieves  all,  the  piff-piff- 
piffing  of  the  mental  and  moral  intelligence  is  but 
a  subsidiary  help,  a  mere  instrument. 

The  dragon  was  splendid:  I  have  seen  dragons  in 
Wagner,  at  Covent  Garden  and  at  the  Prinz-Regenten 
Theater  in  Munich,  and  they  were  ridiculous.  But  this 
dragon  simply  frightened  me,  with  his  leaping  and 
twisting.  And  when  he  seized  the  knight  by  the  leg, 
my  blood  ran  cold. 

With  smoke  and  sulphur  leaps  in  Beelzebub.  But 
he  is  merely  the  servant  of  the  great  old  witch.  He  is 
black  and  grinning,  and  he  flourishes  his  posterior  and 
his  tail.  But  he  is  curiously  inefficacious:  a  sort  of 
lackey  of  wicked  powers. 

[  35*  ] 


BACK 

The  old  witch  with  her  grey  hair  and  staring  eyes 
succeeds  in  being  ghastly.  With  just  a  touch,  she 
would  be  a  tall,  benevolent  old  lady.  But  listen  to  her. 
Hear  her  horrible  female  voice  with  its  scraping  yells 
of  evil  lustfulness.  Yes,  she  fills  me  with  horror. 
And  I  am  staggered  to  find  how  I  believe  in  her  as  the 
evil  principle.  Beelzebub,  poor  devil,  is  only  one  of 
her  instruments. 

It  is  her  old,  horrible,  girning  female  soul  which 
locks  up  the  heroes,  and  which  sends  forth  the  awful 
and  almost  omnipotent  malevolence.  This  old, 
ghastly  woman-spirit  is  the  very  core  of  mischief. 
And  I  felt  my  heart  getting  as  hot  against  her  as  the 
hearts  of  the  lads  in  the  audience  were.  Red,  deep 
hate  I  felt  of  that  symbolic  old  ghoul-female.  Poor 
male  Beelzebub  is  her  loutish  slave.  And  it  takes  all 
Merlin's  bright-faced  intelligence,  and  all  the  surging 
hot  urgency  of  the  Paladins,  to  conquer  her. 

She  will  never  be  finally  destroyed — she  will  never 
finally  die,  till  her  statue,  which  is  immured  in  the 
vaults  of  the  castle,  is  burned. — Oh,  it  was  a  very 
psychoanalytic  performance  altogether,  and  one  could 
give  a  very  good  Freudian  analysis  of  it. — But  behold 
this  image  of  the  witch:  this  white,  submerged  id,ea 
of  woman  which  rules  from  the  deeps  of  the  uncon- 
scious. Behold,  the  reckless,  untamable  male  knights 

[  353  ] 


SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

will  do  for  it.  As  the  statue  goes  up  in  flame — it  is 
only  paper  over  wires — the  audience  yells!  And  yells 
again.  And  would  God  the  symbolic  act  were  really 
achieved.  It  is  only  little  boys  who  yell.  Men  merely 
smile  at  the  trick.  They  know  well  enough  the  white 
image  endures. 

So  it  is  over.  The  knights  look  at  us  once  more. 
Orlando,  hero  of  heroes,  has  a  slight  inward  cast  of  the 
eyes.  This  gives  him  that  look  of  almost  fierce  good- 
nature which  these  people  adore:  the  look  of  a  man 
who  does  not  think,  but  whose  heart  is  all  the  time  red 
hot  with  burning,  generous  blood-passion.  This  is 
what  they  adore. 

So  my  knights  go.  They  all  have  wonderful  faces, 
and  are  so  splendidly  glittering  and  male.  I  am  sorry 
they  will  be  laid  in  a  box  now. 

There  is  a  great  gasp  of  relief.  The  piano  starts  its 
lame  rattle.  Somebody  looking  round  laughs.  And 
we  all  look  round.  And  seated  on  the  top  of  the  ticket 
office  is  a  fat,  solemn  urchin  of  two  or  three  years, 
hands  folded  over  his  stomach,  his  forehead  big  and 
blank,  like  some  queer  little  Buddha.  The  audience 
laughs  with  that  southern  sympathy:  physical  sympa- 
thy: that  is  what  they  love  to  feel  and  to  arouse. 

But  there  is  a  little  after-scene:  in  front  of  the  drop- 
curtain  jerks  out  a  little  fat  flat  caricature  of  a  Neapoli- 

[  354  ] 


BACK 

tan,  and  from  the  opposite  side  jerks  the  tall  caricature 
of  a  Sicilian.  They  jerk  towards  one  another  and 
bump  into  one  another  with  a  smack.  And  smack  goes 
the  Neapolitan,  down  on  his  posterior.  And  the  boys 
howl  with  joy.  It  is  the  eternal  collision  between  the 
two  peoples,  Neapolitan  and  Sicilian.  Now  goes  on 
a  lot  of  fooling  between  the  two  clowns,  in  the  two 
dialects.  Alas,  I  can  hardly  understand  anything  at 
all.  But  it  sounds  comic,  and  looks  very  funny.  The 
Neapolitan  of  course  gets  most  of  the  knocks.  And 
there  seems  to  be  no  indecency  at  all — unless  once. — 
The  boys  howl  and  rock  with  joy,  and  no  one  says 
Silenzio! 

But  it  is  over.  All  is  over.  The  theatre  empties  in 
a  moment.  And  I  shake  hands  with  my  fat  neighbour, 
affectionately,  and  in  the  right  spirit.  Truly  I  loved 
them  all  in  the  theatre:  the  generous,  hot  southern 
blood,  so  subtle  and  spontaneous,  that  asks  for  blood 
contact,  not  for  mental  communion  or  spirit  sympathy. 
I  was  sorry  to  leave  them. 

FINIS. 


[  355  ] 


THE  OUTSTANDING  TRAVEL  BOOK  OF  THE  YEAR. 

SEA  AND  SARDINIA 

By  D.  H.  LAWRENCE: 

Illustrated  with  reproductions  in  full  color  of  striking  paintings  made 
especially  to  illustrate  this  loolc  by  Jan  Juta;  and  a  map  of  Sardinia  by 
the  author. 

An  account  of  a  trip  Lawrence  took  in  Sardinia.  Chatty,  intimate, 
full  of  keen  and  unusual  observations.  It  is  a  book  that  should  be  in  the 
homes  of  all.  The  text  by  Lawrence  and  the  beautiful  pictures  by  Jan 
Juta  make  a  rare  combination. 

Mr.  Lawrence  himself  chose  the  talented  young  Jan  Juta  to  make  the 
illustrations  for  this  book.     The  whimsical,  really  humorous  map  by  the 
author,  displaying  high  draughtsman  skill,  further  adds  to  the 
the  book. 

The  illustrations  singularly  fit  in  with  Mr.  Lawrence's  style,  as  they 
are  of  a  modern  school,  yet  do  not  altogether  break  with  classic  tradition 
Mr  Juta  is  the  son  of  Sir  Henry  Juta,  Judge  President  of  the  Union  o 
South  Africa.    He  was  a  pupil  of  the  Slade  School  in  London, 
war  ended,  he  has  been  abroad  a  good  deal,  visiting  various  countries  in 
search  of  new  fields.    His  best  recommendation,  he  says,  is  the  fact 
Mr   D   H   Lawrence,  who  was  attracted  to  his  work  in  Italy,  has  selected 
him  to  illustrate  his  book  from  among  all  the  brilliant  young  arti 
the  modern  school. 

John  Peak  Bishop,  in  Vanity  Fair,  soys:  "It  is  a  remarkable  'travel 
book,'  this  account  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  the  tall  coasts  of  Italy,  o 
the  hard  and  primitive  island  of  Sardinia,  of  the  peasants,  still  c 
implacably  to  a  medieval  individualism,  the  men  proudly  dressed  in  the 
old  magpie  motley,  black  and  white,  the  women  in  stiff  spreading  ,       «» 
of  mauve  and  vermilion,  like  Velasquez  princesses-remarkable  because 
the  unflagging  sensitiveness  and  the  sly  observations." 

New  York  Times:  "Among  the  best  things  that  Lawrence  has  done, 
full  of  vivid  description  and  compact  with  careful  analysi;  ^  ^ 


THOMAS    SELTZER 

FIVE  WEST  FIFTIETH  STREET,  NEW  YORK 


